


Red vs. Black

by ziamhaze



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Blood and Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Immigration & Emigration, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Superheroes, Superpowers, not sure if that's a trigger but I thought I'd add it just in case, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 112,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24342670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziamhaze/pseuds/ziamhaze
Summary: Red Valor and Black Blood.  Two of London’s most powerful superhumans.  They may be one in the same having to have overcome less than perfect childhoods, but where they’ve wound up as adults are two entirely different people.  Under his crimson mask, Liam Payne has dedicated his life to saving the city from danger with his elemental telekinesis and heart of gold.  Zayn Malik, not so much.  From beneath his black mesh tracksuit lives a tortured soul looking to wreak havoc on the world with help from his countless, intricate tattoos that come alive at the snap of his fingers.  The men are complete opposites.  And also, unsuspecting lovers?  Perhaps if they weren’t so caught up in falling in love with each other’s daytime personas they’d be able to pick up on the obvious hints that give way to their nighttime ones.  But that’s not a big deal.  Keeping a secret so large and momentous that if unspoken, could lead to your demise is never a bad thing.  Right?
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 30
Kudos: 92





	1. Good

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, where do I start with this fic?
> 
> First and foremost, I’m so incredibly grateful for all of the support I’ve gotten from all of you readers over the past year. It’s insane to me to read some of your comments and learn about what you’ve taken away from certain fics. I appreciate you all to no end.
> 
> A special thank you to Megan, my beta reader, for looking over this and always being my light of encouragement. Clau, for illustrating blueprints for the boys’ flats, which a link in the endnotes has been included for you to see. And also Elina, for showing me that little extra support!
> 
> This story is...a lot. It touches on poverty, PTSD, attachment issues, blinding love, a lot of different things. I still can’t believe I managed to pull it all together into a succinct storyline like this, but I’m so so proud of the final product. As always, I did tons of research on factual things that are scattered throughout the fic, but let me touch on a few:
> 
> \- Pakistan and 9/11: Early on in my undergraduate years I specialized in the Afghanistan/Pakistan/India region, so I went into Zayn’s background (no, he wasn’t actually born in Quetta, Pakistan, but for fictional purposes he was) with a little bit of knowledge. However, I took my time researching what I could regarding the socio political turmoil of the area in early 2001 and early 2002. It’s tough to accurately portray Quetta in that time, but I did my best to make it on par with what I read up on.  
> \- PTSD: No spoilers at all, Zayn suffers from PTSD in this fic. Heavily. This is a love story more than anything else, but it was 100000% necessary for me to expose this in his character often and I’m sure you’ll agree once you finish. But, trigger warning should that be an issue for you.  
> \- Immigration: Again, did my best to make Zayn’s trip into the UK and transition living there to be as accurate as possible to the laws around 2002. Since the Syrian refugee crisis, things have changed, but I think the way I made things was relatively accurate to the time Zayn would’ve crossed the border.  
> \- Zayn’s tattoos: All of the tattoos mentioned are in fact Zayn’s. Every last one. I have a running list of ALL of them on my tumblr if you’re at all interested. Believe it or not, I think I only referenced about ¾ of them.
> 
> All that said, I really really hope you enjoy this and it makes passing the time a little easier on you. Oh, and for those of you who try and guess what one of the boy’s occupations will be based on my last fic, this inspiration very obviously comes from Liam and Zayn’s Sunday after-football ritual of watching superhero films in The Heart of Him.
> 
> I think we all know how seriously ziam fans take superhero au’s, so trust me when I say I didn’t take this lightly.
> 
> Happy reading!

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Fifteen minutes before Zayn's set to leave his desk for the day, he gets a text from Louis.

**Not in the mood to cook. Meet us at the Japanese place on Hadley at 7?**

With London's rush hour, it'll take him the full sixty minutes to make it on time, but Zayn's been packed and ready to escape the monotone publishing office for the past thirty. So long as he takes off the moment the clock strikes six, he'll be fine. Or...

_Fuck it._

Pushing back from his desk, he stands and looks around the other cubicles scattered about the floor. Their inhabitants hardly even notice the towering figure surveying them.

_I hate all of you._

On the way to the lift, Zayn replies to Louis, letting him know that he's bypassing office protocol and leaving now.

**If you beat us, I put the reservation under your name.**

As he steps into the mirrored box, he thinks to ask, why? Their favourite eastside sushi joint's closer to his flatmate's software engineering company in Shoreditch than it is to where Zayn's currently located in Soho. But he can't care less; it's too insignificant for the effort.

_I hope when I show up tomorrow morning, you've all kissed the plague._

The lift doors close on the fifth floor scenery.

Sadly, Zayn knows his wish won't come true. Although, for a split second, he does wonder if he'll be the one to carry the disease in when he finds himself sandwiched between two middle-aged women on the Tube, one of which never learned the courtesy of sneezing into a tissue, or at the very least, the inside of her elbow. He apologizes when he trips her on the way out, causing a domino effect and almost toppling the second woman over along with the other innocent passengers trying to exit onto the platform, but the sarcastic smile on his face proves his plea for forgiveness to be nothing other than a mocking admonition.

A small bout of February rain starts when Zayn hits the halfway point between the station and 'Bento Love'. He checks that his crossbody satchel's closed tightly, not bothering to blurt out an obligatory "sorry" when he bumps into several passersby on the sidewalk. While the clasp looked to be fine then, he still opens his bag when he enters the sushi restaurant to ensure none of the manuscripts he plans on reading through later that night have gotten damp.

"Welcome! Can I have your name please?"

Even after he mutters his surname of Malik to the hostess, Zayn continues to examine the second stack of bound papers.

"Zayn?"

"Yeah."

It looks like the interior of his briefcase lives to see another day.

"Can I take your coat and bag?"

Finally, Zayn looks up at the young woman who's holding out her hand for him to fill. "Sure, thanks."

For a Thursday night, the place isn't that crowded. In fact, when he leans left to check out one of the dining areas, none of the booths are filled. As his mouth opens to make a comment about the abnormal vacancy, another woman shows up to his right. When he turns to take in her appearance - blonde and slim, wearing a floral dress and holding a clipboard that completes her typecast of outgoing perfectionist - he can see that the main dining area is practically empty as well.

"Hi, can I have your name?"

"I already told her," Zayn nods to the worker who's now handing him a laminated card that matches the one wrapped around the hanger his things are hanging on.

"Zayn Malik," the hostess provides.

At first, Zayn's irritated by the staff's lack of organization, but that anger quickly turns to confusion when the more bubbly of the two finds his name on one of her sheets and begins to spew facts about him only Zayn's closest friends would know.

"Twenty-seven years old, associate editor, born in Pakistan, raised in Cheshire, interested in both men, and women."

"Excuse me?" Zayn spits, eyebrows bunched together in outrage at how a stranger could have the audacity to rattle all of that off so openly with no evident embarrassment. He doesn't even stop to think where she got the information.

The woman only slightly recoils at the question. "I'm sorry, is any of that incorrect? I can change your profile while we're waiting for others to show up so that it's accurate before anyone can visit our site after the event."

Zayn's eyes narrow even more. "What event?"

"Lovers Lane Speed Dating. You signed up last week..."

Steam practically shoots out from Zayn's ears. There's only one explanation for how he's found himself in this situation, one five letter explanation: Louis.

He's got every reason, and all the frustration in the world, to barge behind the front counter, yank his coat and bag out from the closet, and yell at his best friend the entire bus ride home, but right as he's about to lurch towards the hostess' desk, his eyes land on a patch of colour.

Ignoring the Type A who's staring back at him in question and stepping further into the restaurant's expansive seating area, Zayn sees that the table situated in the far right corner that caught his attention is only the start of a sushi spread wide enough to cater a wedding. Nigiri pieces are elegantly organized around countless cake stands extending across the whole of the back wall, every type of roll on serving trays in between. Small, individual servings of seaweed salad are mixed in with decorative plants too. And surrounding the buffet, stands a crowd of about twenty, all dressed to impress. For being caught off guard, Zayn's work outfit of black slacks and a white button up fit have him fitting in perfectly.

"Did I pay for this already?" He asks, turning back to the woman who he's assuming is in charge of the event.

"You did."

"And the food's included?"

"Everything is," she smiles. "The ticket, the food, the bar."

_The bar?_

A good portion of the singles are standing around the 360° counter that's centered in the room; only a few have pulled out the tall stools underneath and taken a seat. Several trays of champagne flutes are pre-poured, but Zayn's scoping out the various bottles along the double-sided glass shelving unit that sits in the middle of the bartending zone. He can't make out label names this far, but the selection's large enough, and the setup classy enough, for him to feel confident that whatever he orders will be made with brands much smoother than his normal at Wetherspoons.

Having assessed his environment and the elements of it that Louis' credit card has gifted him, Zayn thinks hard about whether partaking in the night's main event is worth it.

All of these people are desperate. How could they not be? Actively signing up for an evening of speed dating is even more pathetic than putting yourself on one of those millions of dating apps that existed nowadays. But with those, Zayn could at least appreciate the blatant hookup culture that existed between the bullshit bios and photoshopped picture galleries. Taking an hour to do your makeup and learning how to properly tie a tie in an attempt to appear put together in front of twenty or thirty other people for less than a few minutes each? You can't hide that sort of eager attitude in any "About Me" section.

"How does this shit work?"

Taken aback by Zayn's unapologetic use of the curse word, the woman pauses to collect her thoughts before filling him in on the event's logistics. "Well, we officially start the seating assignments in twenty minutes, so you're free to eat and talk to the others until then. I'm going to reiterate this to the whole group, but you'll get five minutes with each person before switching. In between the switch, you can mark down if you liked them and any notes you have on this."

The pen and pad of paper that Zayn's being handed can fit in his pocket, which is where it's more than likely going to stay with categories like "Attractive!", "Good Personality!", and "Stood Out!" to check off.

"When you get home, you can log in to your online profile and send a wink to anyone you'd like to meet on your own."

It's impossible for Zayn to keep a straight face when he hears the term "wink" be used as a means of expressing interest, especially in a virtual context. Starting tomorrow, Louis better sleep with one eye open. In the meantime, the all-you-can-eat dragon rolls and open bar are calling his name, as are the suckers Zayn plans on taking the piss out of for the next few hours.

"You'll need to wear this for the remainder of the night as well."

His first name and its phonetic pronunciation are printed neatly in black on a rectangle sticker that's got three faint lines of colour as its background: magenta, blue, and lavender.

"The five numbers on the bottom are your ID," the woman adds. "You need to write down each person's in order to find their prof-"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." Ripping off the protective backing, Zayn slaps the sticker against his left pectoral, hands the lady back the plastic, and then takes off for the bar.

Back against the counter, Zayn sips his gin and tonic generously while observing the multiple food tables that are laid out in front of him. It's been well over six hours since he picked at a measly chicken salad for lunch. If he starts now, perhaps he can get through one of everything. Sushi pieces are small. He can carry a linen napkin and just wipe off his fingers after popping each bite size morsal into his mouth. Should anyone say anything, he'll claim he’s a radical environmentalist, making a stand against the use of disposable chopsticks and the water that would be used to wash the cheap plates that are stacked on the end of the furthest table to the right. 

But first, he turns to the barman, "Hey, can I get a shot of tequila?" 

Ten minutes later, when Zayn's nearly a third of the way through sampling all of Japan, he senses that he might need to draw his tree hugger card. 

"You seem like you're on a mission," says a man with a beard trimmed so perfectly, it would cause any hipster to break into a round of applause. 

"I am, so don't talk to me." Immediately, Zayn goes back to pulling a single strip of salmon sashimi from off a platter. 

The guy doesn't even scold Zayn for being so rude, simply raises his eyebrows and adds a nearby hand roll to his plate before walking away. From then on, Zayn learns that if he shoves his napkin in his pocket and puts his phone up to his ear, he can avoid any other unnecessary small talk while attempting to put away as much as possible. 

At the sound of a clinking glass somewhere in the room, he slips the mobile back into his pocket and scans the last quarter of the buffet to see if it's worth picking at while the optimist gives their speech. 

"Can I have everyone's attention please?" 

As soon as Zayn dismisses the food, he sees that this isn't just any positive go-getter, it's the head honcho herself. The woman who had introduced him to this soon-to-be shitshow beams at the room's inhabitants, all of whom have quieted down and are now looking in her direction. Zayn's headed back to the bar. 

"My name's Ashley, and I'm the Senior Event Coordinator at Lovers Lane. Thank you all for coming out tonight!" 

_You would be an Ashley_. 

After wiping his hands and mouth, Zayn waves his favourite barman over. 

"We've got a sold-out evening, which means all twenty-six seats will be taken and even greater chances at finding a match!" 

"Yeah, I'm gonna need another shot of tequila," Zayn tells the worker, watching as he turns and reaches for one of the Patron bottles. "No, no, the other one." When the man looks over his shoulder, Zayn sends him a sickeningly sweet smile. _Don't try and give me the cut rate stuff, I can see the nearly full Limited Edition decanter crystal clear._ "Thank you," he says sardonically once the shot glass is filled to his liking. 

"We're going to use all of the tables along the wall opposite me and wrap around to the ones that line the front of the restaurant," Ashley points out with her set of annoyingly bright red nails. "On the top corner of your notepad you'll see a number. That will be the table you start at. Again, you'll have five minutes with each person and then everyone will move to their left at the sound of the bell." The younger woman at her side taps the top of a silver call bell as a reference. "If anyone's lost their pen or has any questions, please come up. The rest of you are free to find your seats." 

Like a herd of sheep, everyone besides the staff roams towards the aforementioned line of tables. Zayn holds back, staring at the shot that he's yet to take and doing the math on how long the slight inebriation that he felt kick in five minutes ago will last after downing what's in front of him. He's pushed his stomach to its limit in order to take advantage of the normally expensive cuisine, but small pieces of fish and rice aren't exactly the best types of food to quicken the sobering process. 

He forgoes the lime at the glass’ side after tipping it back, then stares down the barman who hasn't moved from his spot, clearly anticipating another request from the male. 

"One more gin and tonic," Zayn orders. "For good luck." 

Before he wanders over to where the flock has settled, he hears the man say, "you're gonna need it." 

At lucky table eight a brunette in a black laced top with bell sleeves is sitting across from an empty seat. She's simple, the ends of her straight hair resting right above her shoulders, her makeup natural. The whole girl-next-door vibe might be something Zayn would go for were they to come across each other under normal circumstances, but as soon as the bell goes off to signal that their five-minute countdown has begun, he regrets ever letting her live in his thoughts rent free. 

"You have tattoos," she points out, tone bitter as if the thought of ink covering someone else's skin makes her own crawl. 

"And you have functioning eyes," Zayn counters. Sticking his pen behind his ear, he unbuttons both of his shirt cuffs and begins to roll the right sleeve up to his elbow. The girl's eyes start at the cursive ‘Love’ that's tattooed across his knuckles and follow the skin as it's slowly exposed; not one patch is void of artwork. She nearly scoffs when his left arm reveals the same, except for when he turns his tan forearm to show that its underside is mainly blank and tells her there's plenty of room for him to get her name right next to his sister's in Arabic script. Then she can't hold back, letting out a loud noise of disapproval followed by the checking off of every ‘no’ box on her paper. 

"Hey, I'm right there with you princess." Rather than sticking to the small boxes, Zayn puts a huge cross over his entire first sheet, only flipping it to the next when he's sure the girl's seen what he's done. 

His next victim is a man who looks to have been subjected to balding in his early twenties rather than late thirties. It's not his fault, but that doesn't stop Zayn from asking all about it rather than running with any of the questions he's being given in an attempt to steer away from the subject. Luckily, his comedy is rewarded by the next hopeful, who's so nervous that he won't get out everything that he wants to say before the bell goes off, that he doesn't leave a second for Zayn to get a word in. 

And so it goes, each pathetic taking their turn at making their best first impression only to have it squandered by the one person who wants to be there the least. Although, things do start to shift away from dull monotony to mild entertainment when he begins to realize that it’s not just the first half of the group, _everyone’s_ a piece of cake to rile up. Like the oldest of the men, who looks as though he wants to crumple up his notepad and throw it at Zayn when he answers his question of "don't you want to write down my ID number?" with an irritatingly simple, "no". Or the wide-eyed girl who’s a couple years older than Zayn that asks him a million questions about his job, which he appreciates, but sees through the moment he makes her blush to the high heavens by letting her know that monitoring a listicle doesn't count as reading. She should've known it was socially unacceptable and despicable for a person nearing thirty to have the nerve to answer a question like ‘what genre do you enjoy?’ with, "well, I'm addicted to Buzzfeed.” Then again, he supposes her reaction was better than the recovering addict he triggers a few seat changes later. 

"Are you drunk?" 

"Does it matter?" Zayn asks back, taking the time to look at the glass he's been nursing very slowly; so far, he's only finished a quarter of it. 

"I used to be an alcoholic." 

Zayn's eyes spark with mischief. "Finally, someone interesting." 

"You call waking up every morning with bottles littering your bed, unaware of how they got there, interesting?" 

" _Peter_ ," Zayn says with emphasis so that the named man two seats over can hear that he's being talked about, "gardens for a living. I nearly let the alcohol put me to sleep imagining him pulling weeds for eight hours a day." 

"I work at a garden centre," Peter clarifies, his own ‘date’ being put to a standstill in order for him to do so. The couple in between his and Zayn's table get caught in the crossfire. "And you're prick." 

Raising his notepad, Zayn draws a dramatic circle around the entire row of ‘yes' for Peter to see. "But I thought you were brilliant," he whines dramatically, throwing a thumbs up in the air when he hears Ashley start to ask if everything's alright. 

His attention quickly switches back to the girl in front of him. "The image of you two getting together is priceless. He'd bore you back to drinking." 

There's a flash of retaliation that comes over the girl's face, but she doesn't act on it. 

When Zayn finds himself sitting in front of his lumberjack friend from earlier, he's fully prepared to hear ‘you're a prick’ be repeated in a more colourful way, but surprisingly, that doesn't happen. 

"Where'd you get your tatts done?" 

Scanning his exposed arms, Zayn tries to figure out where this is going before meeting eyes with ‘Nathan’, but he comes up blank. "Almost all of them I got done when I lived in Bristol for uni." 

"Do you use any sort of balm to keep them sticking out like that? They look fresh." 

Zayn's right pointer finger runs over the large mandala design that decorates his left hand and wrist. The skin underneath the linework is just barely raised like it's one or two weeks out from having been made, its ink a rich midnight instead of the dull black that tattoos normally take on years after their initial etchings; nearly all of his works carry the same effect. 

"My flatmate's got this all natural stuff that he makes," Zayn lies. "I couldn't tell you what's in it. He keeps the recipe locked tight." 

"Well, if he ever wants to make any money off it, let me know. I've got a few on my upper shoulders that could use some livening up." Before Zayn's got the chance to protest, Nathan takes his paper and writes his number down. "Plenty of friends that would pay too. But don't think this is anything more than that." The steno pad gets slid back across the table. "That one lad's right. You really are a prick." 

Once the conveyor belt moves along, another man stares back at Zayn. It's a blank stare, completely void of any interest. As Zayn assesses him for an opening punchline, he notices the lackluster colours of his name tag and it suddenly clicks as to why his mile-long eyelashes aren't working. 

"Are black and white stripes what make up the straight flag?" He asks. 

"Apparently." 

"Then you won't care if I fuck off to the bar for a refill..." 

"No, I'm right behind you." 

"Sorry, everyone needs to stay in their seats to keep things organized!" Ashley calls from across the room. 

"We're all good Ash," Zayn shouts back, words rounded along the edges, not yet fully slurred. "Ryan and I share an interest in mixed drinks. This is a field trip. You should be thrilled I've come so close to finding the one." 

On the walk to the bar, a tingling comes over Zayn's left shin. At first, he ignores it, but as he's waiting for Ryan to put in his order, it becomes clear that it's not going away without being attended to. Leaning down, Zayn slaps the spot over his trousers a couple of times. On the way up, he almost falls over. Perhaps another drink isn't a good idea after all. It's been about an hour and a half since his first. If he goes for fifth, and should its side effects hit too quickly, he might be in more trouble than he intended. 

To the barman's amusement he orders a water, taking it back to his seat and checking his phone until he and Ryan are no longer subjected to each other's company. 

Another half hour passes, and with it, six more fake smiles turned unimpressed scowls; Zayn’s purposefully butchered each of their names. The Nigerian woman he's sitting across from now has a stunning complexion, but he ruins that date too when he asks what her issue is. 

"You're gorgeous," he says sincerely, the first time he's spoken as such all night. "You've got a real job, unlike eighty percent of these wankers. What's your baggage? Carry-on or check-in?" 

"You've got some nerve talking to me like that," she sneers, light brown eyes piercing his own hazel in a way that Zayn thinks is meant to be intimidating, but really only turns him on. 

"Even your accent's sexy." 

"Yeah, well yours is repulsive." Right as the bell goes off, she takes one more scornful look at him. "I can't stand Indian accents. Especially not thick ones like the alcohol's made yours to be." 

The insult sobers Zayn up while simultaneously igniting a bonfire of fury within his chest. His left shin begins to tingle again. "I'm not Indian," he says between gritted teeth, mindlessly getting up to switch seats. "I'm Pakistani." 

"I'm only British, but I like Pakistani accents." 

In front of Zayn now sits a white man with short brown hair that's swooped up into a wave along the front. He's wearing a navy button up with a black necktie, and is gazing back at Zayn, so genuine and excited to hear how his compliment will go over, that Zayn's inner flames die down. 

"I'd like to see you try and pick one out in a crowd," he challenges, fully convinced that the line was only said to win him over, not because this person truly did have a thing for those of his race. 

"I'm Liam." Right as the bell sounds, a hand juts out for Zayn to shake. The gesture alone tells him that this match-up is about to be the best yet. "I'm twenty-six. Born and raised in Wolverhampton. I moved to London when I was eighteen to go to uni. Ever since graduation, I've been working at a community centre for at risk youths near Kings Cross as a lifeskills worker." 

As he pulls his hand away from the strong, calloused grip of the other, Zayn watches in entertainment as Liam keeps rattling off his very obviously rehearsed speech. 

"I'm someone who really loves to give back, so I tend to always offer myself up for longer shifts at the centre. But I'm not _too_ much of a workaholic. I usually go out on the weekend with my flatmate. My party trick is to name all of America's presidents in alphabetical order." 

Chatter from the rest of the others in the room fills the pause that's stretching out now that Liam's clearly waiting for Zayn to give his own spiel. Except no way in hell does he have one. Nor can he settle on one joke to tell, there are far too many to choose from. 

After he slaps his shin a few more times to get it to stop tingling, Zayn voices his most pressing thought, "How many of these have you been to?" 

Liam looks up from where he's just jotted down his date's ID number. "A few." 

"Yeah, a few _hundred_." 

Short fits of laughter fall from Liam's lips, his inviting brown eyes crinkling shut in jest. "I've really been looking forward to meeting you." 

"Me?" Zayn asks, eyebrows raised in shock at the innocent confession. And then it hits him. "Where's Laura?" Heads turn at Zayn's drunken shout. "There you are!" He waves at the woman who, earlier in the night, had tried to tell him politely that he just wasn't her type after what she'd witnessed of him prior to going on their five minute date. "This bloke's been _looking forward_ to meeting me!" 

"Zayn..." 

"Ash, how many times do I have to tell you?" He groans, settling back down and ignoring the eyeroll Laura’s just sent his way. "I'm all good. Not doing anyone any harm. Am I Liam?" 

The man shakes his head obediently, teeth biting down on his bottom lip to stop his smile from growing and giving away how much he's enjoying this game Zayn insists on playing. 

"See?" Zayn bellows. "Everyone can go back to learning each other's love language now." Once his eyes turn back to Liam, he can feel his smile go from sarcastically satisfied, to real. "Don't look at me like that." 

"Like what?" Liam replies giddily. 

"Like you secretly hope I know what my love language is and that if I did, I'd share it with you." 

Shrugging, Liam takes down a few notes, shielding them when Zayn tries to sneak a peek at what he's said that's so important that Liam wants to remember it for later. "I'm more impressed that you know what they are on their own." 

"My brother's a psychologist," Zayn informs him. "I hear about a lot of shit I don't want to." 

"And what is it that you do?" 

"I work in publishing," Zayn obliges, moving on quickly thereafter. "So, you're a serial speed dater?" 

Another light giggle shakes Liam's shoulders, "I wouldn't go that far, but sure." 

"Haven't you gotten the hint that it doesn't work by now?" 

For the second time, Zayn finds himself face to face with a pair of scrunched up honey eyes. It’s a view that catches him off guard, not anything like the insult hurdling reaction he thought he'd get. 

"Maybe I should've," Liam answers truthfully. "But I don't see any bad in it either. I didn't have anything else to do tonight. The ticket was about the same price as I would've paid to eat here. So, at the very least, I break even with the free food and drinks. Although, I think you've had enough for the both of us." 

"Yeah, but like, come on," Zayn says wryly, leaning back in his seat, choosing to bypass the setup for drunk jokes and continue on with his stream of consciousness. "Do you really think you're gonna find your one true love participating in a million five minute rapid fires?" 

"What've I got to lose other than a few hours of my time and points of dignity?" Looking over his shoulder at where Liam's staring, Zayn sees a black duffle bag sitting on one of the vacant tables near the front entryway. "The kids from the centre had a real go at me when I changed into this before I left." 

Once more, a critical gaze is cast over Liam's appearance - his barely there stubble, broad shoulders, slim physique. He's like the last woman - a person with a catch. 

"Alright then _Liam_ ," Zayn's fuzzy brain forces him to stretch out the man's name, causing it to come out more like ‘Leeyum’ than how it's meant to sound. "Go on then, continue with your award losing pitch." 

Hardly any time passes before Liam launches into a question Zayn never thought he'd hear outside a romantic comedy: "Where would you take me on our second date?" 

"Fucking hell." Shaking his head causes the room to spin just a little, but Zayn's too passionate about his distaste towards the inquiry to stop. "You're way too serious about this." 

"You ask me a question then." 

Even if he were in the right mind, Zayn wouldn’t have been able to come up with a straight response worth giving. The man looking back at him is handsome, but someone needs to loosen his tie a little and let him down easy. Tell him that his endearing act's up, it's time for a dose of reality. Which is why Zayn's grateful that he's got booze to blame for his next move. It's a risk, even for him. 

"Just how small _is_ your dick?" 

Both sets of people on either side of their table stop their conversations and look at Zayn with gaping mouths. The girl who he's due to meet next looks ready to take off early. But Liam? Liam's got his head tilted back in laughter, cheeks red as a rose. Perhaps the skin around his beard is as soft as one too. If Zayn only had enough liquid courage to reach across the table and check. 

"I wasn't asking _you_ ," he spits at the man on his right, who can't seem to tear his eyes away from the train wreck. "Or should I?" 

Intimidated by the readiness in Zayn's voice, the man turns back to his own date without a word. 

Liam's contagious smile matches his warm disposition, clearly not at all affected by the explicit nature of what was asked of him. "You're even more fun than I thought you would be." 

In an attempt to find the girl he started with, Zayn cranes his neck down the row of tables. "Glad you think so, but I'm ready to ditch." 

"If you left now, they might threaten to charge you for the drinks." 

"I'd like to see them try." 

The tattoo Nazi’s nowhere to be seen, which makes Zayn both relieved and jealous at the fact that she managed to get away with the exact thing he'd just admitted to thinking about doing. 

"Three things you’d take with you to a deserted island." 

"Certainly not you," Zayn says as he twists his head to look along the tables to his left. Three people down, the lost woman comes into view. 

"Why not?" 

"Because you're a square." Zayn picks apart the way Liam's lips twitch at the insult, yet no guilt comes of it. "I'll tell ya what I'd bring. A never ending-" 

"You can't cheat with an infinite supply of something," Liam says, neither angry, nor accepting. 

"And you wonder why I don't want to take you." Chugging the rest of his water gives Zayn the time to come up with three normal answers: "A knife, water filter, and alcohol." 

"What kind?" 

"What do you mean 'what kind'?" 

"What kind of bottle are you taking?" 

" _Rubbing_ alcohol," Zayn gripes. "I'm not going to prioritize getting drunk over dying from a rabid fox bite." 

Liam nods silently, forcing Zayn to overanalyze his answer before realizing how incredibly idiotic that is. "You're the type who likes to be prepared..." 

Bloody trap the island question was. A hidden evaluation meant to give insight on Zayn's personality. It's something his brother would do, which only makes the male even more aggravated for not spotting Liam's intentions right off the bat. 

"If I was, I wouldn't have ended up here," Zayn replies aggressively, wishing that he lived closer so he could confidently walk back up to the bar and order another shot without worrying that he won’t make it to his bed safely. "You're really killing my buzz, you know that?" 

"How did you accidentally wind up at a speed dating night?" Liam asks after writing down more notes. 

"My flatmate set me up, much like you just did." No argument comes from Liam's side of the table. "He probably thought I needed to get laid." 

Liam caps his pen, "He wasn't smart in picking this crowd. People who come to these sorts of things usually aren't looking for a one night stand." 

"No shit?" Zayn says sarcastically as the bell goes off. "Here, let me see your name tag." 

The sticker's handed over with no protest. In an instant, Zayn rips off his own and replaces it with Liam's. The next person's trying to nudge him to the side, but he merely tells them to "shove it" before leaning over and slapping his sticker onto Liam's chest. 

"Good luck finding your husband or wife Zayn," he smiles, almost stumbling over his chair when he finally moves on to the next person in line. Instead of sitting down right away, he bows and sticks his hand out for the woman to shake, "Hi, I'm Liam." 

Two tables down, a distinct giggle fills the air. 

It stays with Zayn. Through the final three people of the night (including the one who he acts completely cordial towards, only because he knows that if/when she looks up his profile online later, she'll find Liam's picture, and not his), as well as the eventful Uber ride home that consists of a piss poor recap of the night, entirely unprompted by his driver. But the memory of Liam's laugh doesn't leave the 2014 Ford Focus. Neither does his pink, yellow, and blue striped sticker. It's found a new home on the car's backseat.

Climbing the stairs to his flat is a bit challenging, but Zayn manages, taking a break on the first floor before using the rails to haul himself up to the second. It's the front door that gets him.

"Shit," he mumbles, having dropped his keys for the fourth time since fishing them out of his satchel. Instead of trying for a fifth, he pounds on the door. "Louis! Harry! The _least_ the two of you can do is come unlock the fuckin' door after what you just put me through!"

As Zayn waits, the pins and needles from earlier start up again in his shin. "I know Zeus," he says sternly. "Give me two minutes. Ha-"

The door swings open mid-shout.

"Stop," chastises a man, tall with curly brown hair that bushes out around his ears. He's wearing red plaid pajama bottoms and a grey jumper that sits right above his belly button, the fraying strings around the seams proof that he cut it to make it that way. The part of his stomach that's exposed is light, fair skinned. Nothing like Zayn's. "You're going to piss off the neighbors."

Brushing past the man aggressively almost causes Zayn to fall over. So much for wanting to prove a point with confidence.

The flat's small, but homey. To the right of the front door's a makeshift coat rack made of several plastic hooks superglued to the off-white wall, under it a pile of shoes. To the left's an open, 'L' shaped kitchen. It's got enough room for a full-size fridge, but hardly any storage, which means that whatever counter space they do have, is occupied by jars of spices and appliances. In the middle, where an island might be, is a wooden table, its four chairs a light stain that matches the surrounding cabinetry. No walls separate the dining area from the sitting room, only the clear disparity of linoleum and light grey carpeting - the same that lives throughout the rest of the flat. One couch faces the room's furthest wall where a flat screen (currently paused on a comedy show) sits on a chipped maple stand in front of two large windows, though green curtains are almost always drawn over them thanks to the glorious view of the brick building next door. Even the view of the bookshelf full of more knickknacks than it is paperbacks from the perpendicular loveseat is better.

"You're supposed to be the good one," Zayn fights, struggling to keep his swaying to a minimum while taking off his shoes. "Come 'ere." With a strong grip, he pulls the lanky man closer to where he's standing so he can use him as a sturdy anchor. "What would Freud think of you sending your foster brother back into war, Harry?"

"An hour of speed dating isn't as traumatic as war." Harry's head dips when he adds, "And you know how much I hate it when you call me that. My parents might've taken you in, but that doesn't mean you're any less of a real brother to me."

"I said it on purpose to make you realize how angry I am," Zayn mumbles, not wanting to fall into a spiral of sentimentality with the state of mind he's in; they'll both wind up in a tangled mess on the floor, crying. His second shoe slams against the wall after an overly enthusiastic kick. "I was there for _three_ hours," he says, holding up the necessary amount of fingers in front of Harry's face to emphasize his words even more.

"You seemed to find a way to get through it," Harry says, watching Zayn take a few steps into the kitchen. "How much did you drink?"

"Not that much," he answers, slinging his bag onto the table, then doing the same with his jacket. "Only a couple shots of tequila and however many of gin that are in two g&ts."

A head pops up from behind the main couch. "Yeah, but you're like a twig. Three hours for you isn't a lot if we're talking about anything other than beer."

Zayn groans, about ready to tell Louis that he shouldn't be the one talking, standing at an almighty 175cm, but the joke's old, so instead, he grounds out a threatening, "I oughta kill you." The enunciation's a bit dodgy.

"And lose your best friend?" Louis whines, fully sitting up and pushing back his brunette fringe that lands right below his eyebrows. "Come on now Zayn, don't do that to yourself. Or Harry. At least let us get married first so he can inherit all my pension when he becomes a widower."

"Why don't you get down on one knee then?" Zayn says scornfully, as if Harry's not standing right there in front of both of them. "It's only been eight years, what are you waiting for? A ten carat diamond to fall from the sky? Because newsflash! It's not!"

Before things get too ugly, Harry intervenes, a hint of red colouring his cheeks. "Alright, you need to sleep this off. You've got work tomorrow."

But Zayn's not budging. Nor is he ready to sleep yet, especially not with the incessant tingling that's come back full force. "He doesn't even want anything shiny. He'd take a plastic ring if it came from you. Genuinely anything at this point."

The fact that Louis doesn't say anything, no sarcastic comeback or low-blow, leaves the drunken man surprised. He can count the amount of times he's seen Louis stunned to silence on both hands, and the number of which were his doing, on one. Ever since Harry walked into Zayn's bedroom during their first year at university and introduced him to the boy he was locked hands with, Louis had made it abundantly clear that he took shit from no one with his, "Yes, I'm two years older than the both of you, and yes, I'm a Fresher. I don't want to hear about it" preamble.

"Seriously, I'll help you to bed," Harry sighs after having taken a pause of his own to assess the damage done to his boyfriend. But as soon as he turns his attention back to Zayn, his eyes are widening. "What are you doing? Keep your trousers on!"

It's all Louis needs to hear to lift his head back up, his spirits doing the same. "Nah, let him go, love. I want to get this on video."

"'S nothing you haven't seen before," Zayn says bored, using one of the table's chairs to hold himself upright while he shucks off each trouser leg.

Phone out and recording, Louis shakes his head, a wide smirk splitting his face, "Depends on how far you're about to take things."

Zayn doesn't pay the comment any mind. All three of them have seen each other naked over the years by virtue of living together for seven of them. It just so happens that two out of the three do it on a regular basis. But Zayn doesn't plan on tonight being one of the nights he throws caution to the wind and walks to the toilet naked. All he needs is to make it so that his legs can breathe, and getting down to his black boxer briefs does that.

"Now you can roam around," he tells the area that's been giving him a hard time for hours.

Amid several tattoos of cartoons, the face of a carefully depicted timber wolf starts to pull away from Zayn's skin and morph into the physical world. With it comes a full body that wasn't previously a part of the 2-D inking, however, even if it was, no amount of artistry could do this form of the animal justice. It's magnificent with a light chestnut undercoat and dark hickory brown-black mixture top. Even the markings on its face are gorgeous, the trail of hair along its snout sparkles with hints of gold.

Leaning down, Zayn scratches the area between the animal's ears. "Feel better Zeus?"

In response, the wolf does a small figure eight in between its owner's legs.

"Damnit," Louis mutters towards his phone. "Now I have to delete this."

Once Zeus has stretched and shaken out his fur, he follows Zayn around the kitchen table where his owner battles Harry for a Vodka bottle he's picked out of their liquor lineup.

"You're done for the night," Harry argues, wiggling his way between Zayn and the countertop, prying the bottle from the other's hands.

"Just one or two more so I can make sure I don't remember any of it." Clasping his hands together, Zayn hopes Harry will take some sympathy in him, and begs. "Please 'arry?"

"No." The bottle gets stashed in one of the higher cabinets. If it weren't for Zayn's semi-blurry vision, he could easily go after it, but he refrains. Too much effort.

"It couldn't have been that bad," Louis says. "You stayed through the whole thing."

Let down by his refusal of alcohol, Zayn opens his arms wide and scoops up his things on the table, including his trousers that Harry's picked up off the floor. "Manager lady was watching the front door like a hawk. Figured she might end up charging your card for what I ate and drank if I made a break for it. You're welcome."

Louis throws his arms over the back of the couch, "Meet anyone interesting? Or did you scare them all away?"

"Zeus, go to bed. I'm gonna trip on you," Zayn orders in his first language of Urdu, the wolf obeying his command and padding away to the cracked open bedroom door on the right side of the flat. "You should've seen the types of people that showed up."

"Were they all as sex-deprived as you?" Louis asks.

Zayn scoffs, "Please. If any of them got laid within the past six months it'd be a miracle."

"That pitiful, huh?"

"I'll tell you more about it tomorrow. Right now, I wanna sleep."

"Look forward to it sunshine," Louis grins, unpausing the TV when he turns around.

"Fuck you." Trudging his way across the flat, Zayn nods at the other male in the room. "Night Harry."

"Sleep well."

Thanks to Zeus, the door to Zayn's bedroom's already wide open, no struggle needed. A few steps in, he drops what's in his arms on the carpet without a care. The wolf isn't phased by the thud, remaining curled up at the end of the Queen size bed that's centered against the wall. Behind him, Zayn closes the door blindly, not even bothering to turn the light on to see where he's going. His room doesn't have a lot going on for him to be worried about bumping into anything. There's a huge clothes rack to his right, a jam-packed bookshelf opposite his bed, a desk next to that, and a bedside table on the left hand side of the mattress.

As he sits on the edge of his bed unbuttoning his shirt, he can feel another incessant buzzing under his skin. This time, it's all throughout his upper left arm.

"Zeus is out, so now you want out too Hera?" Zayn yawns. "Alright, fine."

After he tosses his shirt onto the ground with the rest of his day's clothes and bag, Zayn sits patiently as the fifteen centimeter black and white tiger tattoo disappears from his body and reappears as a two meter long beast in front of him. In an attempt to get Zayn to pet it, the female tiger nudges Zayn's hand with its orange and black striped head.

"Hi beautiful," he whispers, scratching the large animal's neck and watching it adore the action like it's a miniature house cat. She even tries to get on the bed like one too. "No, no, no, you're too heavy," Zayn rushes. "I've gone over this with you before. I'm sorry, but you've gotta sleep on the floor with Zeus if you want to get some fresh air."

As if she understands, the tiger lays down beside the bed, nearly as long as the furniture without even needing to extend her tail.

Zayn doesn't bother taking his socks off, he simply crawls under the duvet and revels in the sensation of his cheek hitting the cold pillow. He can feel the exhaustion from work and alcohol steal him from consciousness, but Zayn holds on to what he can for the purpose of giving out one last order to his friends.

"Keep the kingdom safe."

\---------------------

Ever since he learned how to read, not a day has gone by in Zayn's life when he hasn't picked up a newspaper. The day electronic publications finally shutdown the print industry altogether is one he hopes to outlive. He's got too many fond memories of his grandfather sending him out into the streets of Quetta as young as six years old with a ten rupee note and instructions.

"Get us one of the _Jang_ and one of the _Dawn_ ," he'd tell Zayn from his spot on the family room rug, as if the request for Pakistan's oldest paper and the largest English publication was different that morning than it was from any of the others in the three years he'd done the daily run.

Over breakfast, they'd take a paper each and read over the headlines, which looked a lot more like Zayn's grandfather reading and Zayn pretending like he knew what the black and white Urdu scripture said. But that quickly changed when Zayn began to piece together more of the familiar lines at a quicker pace than the country's public education system. From then on, the retired man used the news as a tool for teaching Zayn how to read their first language, moving on to English when Urdu became too easy.

Those early days of bonding, of exploring what can come of words, no matter the language were as impressionable as any to Zayn. He holds them close to his heart, and often wonders what life would've been like if the adult figures in his childhood had frowned upon education and forced him into work, like many boys he knew in his youth were groomed to do once their voices dropped.

"I can tell you don't look well from here!"

Sitting on the other side of the street, in front of a newsagent is an older Italian man, waiting for a reply. He's bundled up in a thick red coat, grey hair sticking out from underneath his black beanie, eyeing Zayn as the younger male quickly crosses the narrow road that separates his flat from the independent shop that's one among many on that side of Hatfield Lane.

"Did you stay up late reading again? The circles under your eyes are abysmal," the man adds once Zayn's made it safely across and through a gap made by two cars parked along the sidewalk.

"Good morning to you too Mr. Abramo," Zayn says, picking out a copy of _The Times_ from the bottom of the pile dedicated to England's national daily paper. It's one of many covering the two tables set up in front of the store. Out of curiosity, he scans the front pages of the rest.

"I'm not going to let you leave without getting an answer."

"Are you going to chase me down to the station if I don't give you one?" Zayn asks, looking up from the international section to send the old man a smile. They both know that as soon as his wife demanded he take a cane around with him everywhere for safety the day after his sixtieth birthday two years ago, Mr. Abramo's mobility didn't stand a chance against Zayn's.

"No, I just won't let you buy from me anymore," the man threatens with a grin.

As he laughs, Zayn grips the thermos of coffee in his left hand tighter for warmth. "I've been your most loyal customer, buying a paper a day for almost three years- and paying you once a week in advance for them too. Your business would collapse without me."

"Perhaps it would," Mr. Abramo says, his accent thick and smile wide. "You're a good man Zayn. I enjoy seeing you every morning. But I could do without seeing _him_." Looking over his shoulder, Zayn stares at the silver Mercedes parked in front of the small store. "You know I can't stand the French."

Anticipating one of the old man's rants on his home country's long-lasting rival, Zayn checks his watch to see how much time he's got left before he's going to miss his normal Tube ride. Then again, to hell with the office.

"What'd he do?" he asks, taking a drink of his coffee straight after.

"Nothing." Zayn chuckles at the blunt answer. "I just hate how he talks quietly to whoever he's on the phone with when he looks at the papers or goes inside to buy something. As if I know French and am trying to eavesdrop on his conversation. _Bischero_ ," the man grimaces. "They're sneaky - the French - even when they're not. They always try and act like they know something you don't. Remember that Zayn."

"Mhmm, I'll do my best." Taking the newspaper he picked out from under his arm, Zayn starts to back away from the man. "I've gotta get going. I'll see you tomorrow." Before he passes the front door of the shop, he waves to the woman who's stocking the small produce section. "Buongiorno, Mrs. Abramo."

Her morning greeting gets mixed with her husband's shout: "You didn't tell me about your sleeping!"

"Come do something about it," Zayn challenges, walking backwards with his arms open wide in invitation. As he's about to turn around, satisfied with the fond shaking of his cane that the old man gives him as a response, he takes a look at the Mercedes' yellow registration plate. So he doesn't forget it, Zayn first repeats the seven digit code to himself, then takes his phone out to text it to Louis.

Like every morning in London, the Tube's packed, delaying Zayn's ability to read anything past his paper's front page until he gets to his desk. Rather than looking over that day's headlines, he should really be reading the manuscripts that he never got to the night before, but he knows himself. Even though English isn't his first spoken language, he can thank his grandfather for making it on par with the one that is. And with a passion for reading greater than any of the other self-professed lovers of literature that shared the same company badge with him, Zayn knows he has nothing to worry about. He can work at twice the speed as the editors above him. Which is why he needs to lose his "associate" title.

It's been three years since he was hired as an associate editor, and while Younger Zayn might've rage quit waiting for a promotion this long or gotten himself fired for the entertainment factor, Present-Day Zayn keeps his cool with thin restraint. He owes it to himself for working as an assistant and the odd freelancer all those years out of university to not fuck up what he has going for him at one of Europe's largest publishing houses. But beyond the countless mind-numbing coffee runs he had to do for way too long, he owes it to his parents. The same ones who told him that if he applied himself in the classroom like they knew he could, he'd never let them down. If they were proud of him at age seven for achieving the highest marks in his class, he can only imagine what sort of parade they would throw in his name for working his way to where he is now with full honesty. Minus the part where Louis pretended to be his reference and took the call with the firm's hiring agent, knowing full well that even though Zayn's past work had been exemplary, he knew his bosses wouldn't have the same to say about his attitude. That, his parents wouldn't ever need to know about.

Listening to his Editor-In-Chief go over what new stories were soon to be fed down the pipeline, Zayn sits in one of the larger boardrooms that afternoon, infuriated. If it weren't for the memory of his family's elated faces when he came home with a perfect score on his advanced English test at age eight, he'd unleash Zeus right then and there; snap his fingers, and watch the blood bath unfold while he quietly sipped his third coffee of the day. None of those seated around him had to go through even a fraction of what he did in order to gain a seat at that table, nevermind having to continually prove that they're more than the colour of their skin or the thickness of their accent. Except Blair. She speaks with a Scottish accent so thick, that Zayn doesn't even get any satisfaction from making her repeat herself each time they have a conversation. And even though he genuinely can't understand anything that comes out of her mouth, Zayn deals with it out of appreciation for diversity in a department like Young Adult, with a demographic that needs that the most. One day, when he sits at the head of the table and rules, he'll make sure that he and all those that have overcome their own battles with society, will get what their hardships deserve.

At four, he tells his manager he's got a doctor's appointment; he's too afraid of what he'll do if he has to sit around and listen to water cooler talk about a book he read when he was fifteen for another minute.

On the ride across the city, he checks his phone for the workplace of Mr. Albamo's Frenchman that Louis had tracked down earlier in the day. He'd also sent the man's home address and a copy of his license for a visual reference just in case Zayn needed it. If his friend required anything other than the basics, Louis knew Zayn would ask, otherwise, he learned that to get a good night's sleep, he shouldn't involve himself any more than that.

"Alright, Mister..." Zayn looks down at the driver's license photo one last time. "Giroux. Let's see how much you love your precious Benz."

The line to the man's real estate office across the street rings twice.

"Thatcher and Co.."

"Yeah, hi. Is a Mr. Giroux in the office? This is the Hackney Metropolitan Police. His Mercedes that he parks on Hatfield Lane has been broken into. He needs to come assess the damage immediately."

Without waiting for an answer, Zayn hangs up. His phone was made untraceable by Louis a long time ago, so he isn't worried about being caught impersonating a constable, he just simply doesn't care what sort of nonsense his lie has instilled in whoever picked up.

"Alright Saanp," Zayn says quietly in Urdu, eyes trained on the office's front door. "On my mark." Thirty seconds pass before the man in question walks out in a frenzy. "Attack."

From out of the closest storm drain slithers out a viper. Along its back are black and brown patches - a warning sign that unless you have a death wish, don't disturb the serpent. Right as the last of the snake's body emerges, Zayn snaps his fingers, triggering heavy hip-hop music to flow through his headphones and drown out the man's blood curdling cry.

A sick smile comes over Zayn's lips when Saanp unhooks his fangs from the back of Giroux's right calf. He might not have voiced his want for a prosthetic leg out loud, but that's ok, no one likes having to go through formalities anyway.

"Good boy," Zayn praises. "I'll open up the manhole for you two blocks south."

Several onlookers start to scream when Saanp does as he's told and quickly slithers down the sidewalk, back towards the same storm drain he came out of.

In the nearby alleyway, Zayns kneels with perfect timing for his snake to slide out of the convenient exit and up under his work shirt inconspicuously.

Kicking the cement slab back into place, Zayn stands up and pats his right shoulder where the snake's back to where he belongs. That is, until he makes it to his flat and orders it out again, pulling Saanp through one of the gaps between his shirt buttons.

"I know you won't attack in the house because you know everyone," Zayn whispers, "but try and act a little scary, ok?"

He steps back when the door unlocks so he can't be seen, then waits for it to creep open wide enough that he can comfortably toss the snake through.

"What the fuck!?"

The sound of Louis' petrified exclamation has Zayn falling into a fit of laughter. On the carpet, in front of where Louis' sitting at the kitchen table, Saanp's got his fangs out on display menacingly. They retract as soon as Zayn shuts the door, the viper winding his way up Louis' leg and torso to get to his neck, which he curls around affectionately.

"Very funny Saanp," Louis grumbles, petting the snake's scales as it pokes his ear with its tongue over and over.

"It was his idea," Zayn says, walking past the two so he can change out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable.

"Why are you here?" Louis asks when he comes back out in a pair of sweats cut off at the knees and a hoodie.

"I live here."

Rolling his eyes, Louis pushes his two laptops over to make room for Zayn at the table. "Why are you here between the hours of eight and seven on a weekday?"

"Couldn't stand being at the office, so I thought I'd come join you," Zayn explains, tossing a three hundred page manuscript on the wood. "I really need to get my boss to talk to yours and implement this whole, Work From Home Friday's thing you've got going on."

"I'm a software engineer. As long as I have a computer, I can work from anywhere."

"Yeah? And?" Zayn rocks back on his chair's legs after taking a seat. "So can I. I just need a pen and my never-ending intellect."

Truth be told, even though he did have an above-average brain, it isn't anywhere close to Louis'. The twenty-nine year old's a genius when it comes to coding and technology of any kind. If you needed to tap into your ex's laptop from across the world or wipe your record clean of any tax evasion, Louis' your guy. And those were the jobs that he loved to get his hands on too, the ones that held a greater purpose than simply building the backend of a mobile app. At first, when Louis ditched the hacking for such a mundane change in careers, Zayn was surprised, but it made sense once he found out Harry was the reason behind it.

Choose between continuing with his illegal activities and ending their relationship or move to London and get an honest job - that had been the ultimatum.

It was a hell of a lot more than Harry had asked of Zayn. All he needed to do to secure a place in a London flat with Harry was keep his anger in check so that he could hold on to a job, and in turn, stay a reliable source of rent. Louis put up quite the fight after hearing about the minimal request, yelling about how it wasn't fair that all Zayn had to do to keep Harry close was go take a walk every few hours when he was being asked to up and change a lifestyle that had gotten him by just fine his whole life. But Harry wasn't fazed, he shouted right back, reminding Louis of how his mother was led to believe he passed his A-Levels on the third try with results high enough to get him into a top university, when in reality, he only passed computer engineering; he'd doctored the others to get accepted, much like he wound up doing to his resume to get the job he currently had. It was only until Harry accused his boyfriend of corrupting Zayn further than he already was at twenty-four and contributing to his anger problem, that Zayn inserted himself into the war zone.

So Louis had taught Zayn about the dark web and the infinite ways in which he could code cameras or computer systems to do what he wanted. So what? It wasn't exactly a secret that Zayn had a horrible temper or that he was as damaged as goods could be when he showed up at Harry's door with a social worker at the age of nine, but that didn't mean that Louis should be blamed for the bad decisions Zayn made. Those were all on him. Perhaps he became more aware of how far he could push the limits thanks to gaining a new tech whiz partner in crime, but Zayn never wanted for Louis to think that he was the reason Zayn did the things he did. That was the farthest thing from the truth.

"Ok Saanp, I'm done," Louis says, transferring the snake from around his neck to Zayn's lap.

"He's just a little excited because he got to be of use today after staying cooped up for a month or two." Rather than stay put, Saanp glides up Zayn's chest and coils into his hood to sleep. "I needed a little thrill, and Mr. Abramo gave me an easy target to work with."

Louis crosses his arms over his chest, "Last night wasn't enough for you?"

"I still can't believe that I made it out alive," Zayn says, uncapping his pen and drawing a line on the edge of his manuscript's front cover to make sure it works.

"Along with everyone else...right Zayn?"

He can hear it in Louis' tone how weary he is of hearing a wrong answer, so Zayn doesn't play with him, just gives him the truth straight out. "Sadly yes. Although, there was one woman who made fun of my accent that almost didn't. Maybe I should sic Saanp on her too."

"She lives to see another day, lucky her." Louis dismisses Zayn's low growl of a response. "So, my sixty quid was really only good for getting you wasted?"

"You paid _sixty_ for that scouts meeting?"

"In that case," Louis chuckles, "what badge did you earn while you were there?"

"Just upgraded my charm one really."

"Well let's see if anyone appreciated it..."

Twirling his pen between his fingers, Zayn watches Louis start to furiously type on the laptop closest to him. "Did you send out a survey for them to fill out afterwards?" He jokes. "'On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to recommend Zayn to a friend?' Because I guarantee they'd all put ten."

"Really?" Louis asks, lips hiking up in a smirk.

"Of course."

"Tell that to your inbox of one."

The laptop gets turned towards Zayn, on it, "Zayn Malik's Lovers Lane Speed Dating Messaging Center" with one more message than he expected.

He's about to ask Louis to click on the "About Me" header at the top of the page to see what he wrote, but the message's sender keeps Zayn's mouth closed: Liam Payne.

"What'd you say to this poor lad to make him send you a 'wink'?" Before Louis' shit eating grin can grow any more, Zayn reaches forward to take over, but Louis bats his hand away. "You know the rules about touching my computers."

"You impersonating me is what got us here," Zayn debates. "The rules are void."

"Don't act like you haven't done anything worse."

To show what he means, Louis' stares at the snake on Zayn's shoulder who's just resurfaced from his hiding place to see what's disturbed his short nap.

There's not even a sliver of space for Zayn to argue. Ever since acquiring the power to control his tattoos two and a half years ago (through what he and his other two flatmates could only guess came from an unsterile needle used to ink his "əT͟Hərnəs" tatt on the back of his neck), Zayn has really upped the element of violence when it comes to his crimes committed. Slashing tyres and breaking into abandoned buildings at night during his uni days were child's play if he could enact revenge via a deadly snake attack. If he could permanently damage people who deserved it, not always because they did something to Zayn, but because he liked to play god and throw them a massive curveball like life had done to him, then why shouldn't he? So long as he pulls his soundproof headphones off the little robot on the inside of his right arm to avoid listening to the pain his choice brutality caused, there's no valid reason he shouldn't take advantage of the gift he was given.

Once Zayn leans back in his seat as a sign of surrender, Louis takes control of the computer once more. "So, who's Liam?"

There's no need for Zayn to reference the photo on the profile Louis' clicked on, he could never forget a face like that, but he does need to concentrate in order to recall their conversation.

"He came with index cards," Zayn answers.

"Did he actually?"

"No, but he might as well have."

When Louis' mouse stops at the "About Me" section, he takes it upon himself to read it out loud. "I'm a fun-loving person who likes going on adventures and getting the most out of life." Louis snickers, "Does he enjoy walks on the beach too?" Zayn raises his eyebrow in a silent 'I told you', before Louis goes back to reading. "When I was younger, I participated in lots of sports, but now I mainly stick to the gym to stay in shape." Louis looks to Zayn, "True or false?"

"True." The memory of how hard Liam's pecs were when they switched name tags comes to the forefront of Zayn's mind. "Very true."

"I'm looking for someone who doesn't take themselves too seriously." Louis' side comment, "Don't know why he messaged you then" earns him a swift kick to the ankle. "Likes to listen to music, and is caring. My job can have unpredictable hours sometimes, so I need someone who would be able to handle that as well. Thank you for reading!" Louis' head tilts, "Thank you for reading? Wonder if that's how he signed off his message to you..."

After Louis' cursor travels over Liam's standard facts - age, height, occupation - it returns to the message center and opens the awaiting note.

Louis rushes through reading the first sentence of, "Hi Zayn, I had a really good time meeting you last night.", but immediately slows down when he reads the one that follows. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but I'm the one you asked if they had a small dick."

Immediately Zayn closes his eyes, "Don't."

"No, I'm gonna," Louis insists comically. "That's something a fourteen year old would say. Were you _that_ wasted?"

The younger man rubs a hand down his face, "He was so sincere about the whole thing. I was trying to throw him off."

"So you asked him for his dick size?"

"Clearly he liked it," Zayn replies, reading the rest of the message in his head.

_I know your mate roped you into going, but I thought in case you're interested in humouring me and my faith in matchmaking further, I should let you know that I'd be ok with that. Hope to hear from you, Liam_

"Dear Liam," Louis starts, fingers typing the words along with his voice.

"Uh, no," Zayn snaps, trying to find a way to work around Louis' rule and get his hands on the keyboard. "You're not writing back to him."

"Fine." The laptop's shoved towards Zayn. "You do it."

"I'm not doing it either. There's no way I'm going out with anyone who seriously considers speed dating as a way to meet people." As he continues to speak, Zayn keeps his eyes on Liam's profile picture. "Could you imagine _me_ going to dinner with a person like _that_?"

"Apparently Liam can." Louis ignores the annoying gaze his friend sends him and moves on with what he wants to say. "I signed you up because you spent Valentine's night last week sitting on the roof with Zeus and using that magic slingshot of yours to pelt couples coming out of the Thai place across the street."

"Rightfully so," Zayn defends firmly. "That place is horrible. They should know better."

"You need to find someone," Louis maintains. "You haven't been with anyone since Noah, and that was before we moved three years ago."

Zayn's right eyebrow rises in contest, "What about Jennifer?"

"She doesn't count." Picking up his pen and ripping off a piece of paper from a notepad that's sitting to his right, Louis begins writing something. "For six months, all you did was use each other for sex."

It wasn't meant to be a secret, but still, hearing how his last "relationship" wasn't anything other than a hedonistic one sits oddly with Zayn. He didn't _need_ anyone to make him happy, he's not even sure if he's capable of feeling that emotion in its rawest form anymore. And yet, everytime he decides to stay in for the night and spare London a night of terror, a pit forms in his stomach at the way Louis' body melds into Harry's while they all watch some overly produced horror film. It's the same reaction he gets whenever he looks through the few pictures he has of his parents, young and newly married.

"Well, thanks but no thanks," he finally replies.

"Here's the login info in case you change your mind."

He doesn't plan on using it, but there's something in Zayn that doesn't bring him to throw away the piece of paper Louis' handed over either. Instead, he sets it to the side to be ignored and starts reading.

* * *

**L**

* * *

"The staff here at Brompton Hospital say that they haven't seen anything like it. It's extremely rare for a such an exotic snake to be living in London's city limits, much less a venomous one. Since the bite took place late Friday afternoon, more information has been released to the public, including the snake's species - a Brazilian Viper. It's typically only found in that area of South America, which is making wildlife experts scratch their heads as to how it could have gotten here since none are currently registered with the Department of Security. The UK Fish and Game are looking into how the foreign animal could've possibly gotten smuggled into the country and if it was the only one. As of right now, the bitten man has been moved out of the ICU, but is still recovering from blood poisoning and will need extensive physical therapy for his newly amputated leg. Unfortunately, the anti-venom that doctors had on hand wasn't strong enough to counter such a potent venom and save his leg. If anyone comes across any snakes like the one shown on the screen, please do not approach it and call 411 immediately. We're not sure London's safe keeper, Red Valor, can swoop in and save the day from this one, so be careful."

Looking away from the TV anchor on screen, Liam eyes the gym duffle that sits next to him, behind one of the youth centre staff desks.

"That concludes your Monday morning news report. Have a good day, and don't forget to tune in to George White at six for the night cast."

As the screen switches to a home goods advert, Liam leans down to unzip his bag. Like every morning, he inspected its contents before leaving his flat, but the last of the broadcast's stories has him wanting to double check that under his gym clothes is a black laundry bag. Sure enough, when he lifts up his shorts, he sees the drawstring sack, a hint of red and gold material peeking out of its opening.

Three timid knocks catch Liam off guard and end his examination. Quickly, he shoves the fabric further into the bag before zipping up the duffle and shoving it into his designated cubby on the side of the desk.

Upon unlocking and opening the front door, Liam's met with a girl much shorter than him, mascara running down her face. She looks to be in her teens, somewhere around sixteen or seventeen if he had to guess. Her clothes look worn, as does the rolling suitcase at her feet.

Given where they're at, the answer to Liam's inquiry of what he can do to help her seems obvious, but he asks anyway.

The girl's eyes shift, and Liam can see the way her grip on the luggage handle alternates between tense and lax. He waits, patiently, not showing any signs that he's bothered by needing to do so, but finding that after a while, it's necessary for him to speak again.

"English?" He asks, holding his thumb up when he gets her attention briefly. Receiving a nod, his brain continues problem solving in the way he's trained it to over the years. "Are you hurt?" He gets a head shake no. "I'd like to help you, but I need you to let me know how I can do that. Anything you say to me is confidential, you're safe."

After considering what Liam's said and tightening her grip one last time, the girl speaks cautiously. "My parents found out I'm gay," she nearly whispers. "Someone told them."

No matter how long Liam's been doing this, it never gets any easier hearing the reasons young people wind up at the building's front doors, especially when it has to do with a prejudice he's had to deal with his whole life too. Each time he handles a case like this, he always finds himself calling his parents soon after. To ask how they are, what's new, if they can let him in on any fresh gossip. But most importantly, he calls to say that he loves them, not so they know, but so he can hear them say it back.

Liam's well aware of the rules - the doors don't open until ten, letting anyone in before then has him running the risk of getting in trouble. The reasoning behind it made sense - if they let one person in early, then they would have to let them all. And what's the point of having an official opening time if that's the case?

"Come in," Liam's deep voice instructs calmly.

He's never really been able to follow rules he believes are counterproductive to their original goal. Even so, he locks the door behind them.

The centre's not as big as the one Liam frequented as a kid after school and on the weekends, but he blames that on London's crammed real estate, and the fact that the organization in the Midlands is more for keeping kids under eighteen off of the violent eastside streets than providing services for homeless youths between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four to get back on their feet. However, an abundance of funding makes all the difference; Liam's current place of work's got way more amenities than his hometown centre ever did.

The ground floor's main area is an open plan. Adjacent from an expansive, concrete serving bar and kitchen there's a long dining table where visitors are welcome to enjoy the three free meals offered daily. A few small side tables are next to the staff desks, holding a variety of informational pamphlets about what other places could be of assistance after the doors closed once again at ten at night.

Behind several colourfully labeled doors are rooms dedicated to specific resources - a computer lab available for applying to jobs and taking online courses, a boardroom where communication classes are offered (English lessons included), a nurses station open to any that need basic health services, a counselor's office, and a laundry closet, equipped with free washer and dryer use. There are also showers and a place for people to put their luggage bags for a night if need be. Upstairs holds the centre's two creative spaces - an art studio and makeshift gym. A few empty rooms are up there as well, used as staff storage and where private discussions or guests' phone interviews take place.

"Take a seat," Liam tells the girl, doing the same behind his desk that's covered in so much paperwork, he can't see its surface.

He'd been looking over the program for a self-defense class he was hoping to pitch to management before he turned on the news. He was already running four - the Tuesday/Thursday afternoon Men's Open Talk group, university advice, Monday night communication skills, and a weekend nutrition class, but when he became passionate about a subject, he couldn't help it. He and his coworkers had incredible resources and paths to get the young adults that walked through the doors to a safe environment, but they weren't always immediate fixes. And for the instances where they weren't, knowing how to protect oneself on the streets is a skill that Liam sees as borderline required. He doesn't care if it'll add to his fifty hour a week schedule or not.

"My name's Liam," he says after tidying up his papers into one huge pile. "You can stay here for the day. We have showers where you can get freshened up, and the counselor will be in later on for you to talk to. I'll try and find somewhere for you to stay tonight too." His eyes look past the girl to the open kitchen. "Breakfast isn't for another two hours, but I can make you some tea if you'd like. It'll help you relax."

A small sniffle comes from the young woman, her head lifting up to finally look Liam in the eyes. "You're some sort of hero."

He smiles softly in response. If only she knew the irony behind her words.

For the rest of the morning, he keeps his eye on the girl just in case she spirals into some sort of mental pit of despair. Thankfully she doesn't, nor do any of the others who come in for a hot breakfast and to participate in the job training seminar that they're holding later that day.

It's not glamorous, nor is it a job that gets all that much recognition from the average citizen, but Liam loves it, couldn't see himself doing anything other than helping out those who were dealt a bad hand early on in life. And because of that, he works hard at what he does, pounding the pavement, calling foundations and housing agencies, standing at the head of a room to give a speech, or doing the opposite and staying silent, ears and heart open wide for whoever's trusted him enough to speak their mind. He just wishes there were more hours in the day, because working as much as he does (on and off the clock) makes it near impossible to run any personal errands he might have. It's why he often finds himself at the post office during his lunch break. Or in today's case, the local Sainsbury's doing his weekly shop.

"I really should come more prepared," Liam says to himself as he scrolls through the list he's made on his phone, its items all out of order. He's already gone down the produce section to get what he needs there, but a simple "bananas" in between "toothpaste" and "oatmeal" tells him that he was mistaken in leaving. And thank god he had been.

"Zayn?"

The man whose name Liam's just called out, turns his head in the voice's direction to see who it belongs to. When he realizes that someone is Liam, his body tenses.

"How's it going? Long time no see," Liam says when he walks up to where the man's standing in front of the prepackaged fruit bowls and juices.

"I saw you on Thursday," Zayn replies, eyeing the other suspiciously.

Even sober, Liam notes that he's reticent in his demeanor. Perhaps that's why he's so intrigued; it's a far cry from how Liam usually carries himself.

"Yeah I know," he shrugs, "I was just messing around."

Zayn hums, staring at the basket Liam's carrying before going back to picking apart his features; it's slightly intimidating coming from such a man as handsome as him. But what's even more so is wondering if he'd bothered to check his dating profile after their first encounter. Given the type of person Zayn had made himself out to be that night, Liam hadn't counted on it. Which is why when he never heard back from him, he figured that Zayn really felt how he said he did about organized dating. Or that he truly thought Liam was a "square" and didn't want anything to do with him. You miss every shot you don't take though, right? And with the way Zayn's starting to become impatient the longer he's forced to stand there and socialize, Liam's only chance to go for the half-court shot is now.

"I don't suppose you've had the chance to check your messages," he says smoothly, trying to come off cool and collected, like he could handle rejection that's more than likely to come of the inquiry. "Have you?"

"I have."

Liam's stomach drops like it always does anytime he comes across bad news that he knows he can't fix. He's about to nod in acknowledgement, tell Zayn that he won't waste any more of his time and to have a good day, but he's not given the chance.

"Why is that you're so keen on me taking the piss out of you?" Zayn asks, face scrunched up in confused concentration, like he's speaking his mind while simultaneously trying to come up with the answer himself.

"I'm not entirely sure that's how I worded it," Liam replies.

Zayn's head falls the same time a small smile breaks out. He looks up, cognac eyes alive with a witty spirit that makes Liam's stomach do the opposite of drop. "You know what I've been wondering?"

"Why haven't I messaged Liam back?"

"What three items would _you_ take to a deserted island?"

All at once, a wide smile comes over Liam's face. It's probably not wise to give away his emotions that readily, but he can't help it, he's cursed with overly expressive characteristics. "I've recently changed up my answers." The insight seems to humour Zayn even more. "I used to say a sleeping bag, chewing gum, and an emergency flare, but now I think I'd go with rope, a solar powered radio, and a snorkel."

"You'd die in about a week," Zayn says apathetically.

"No one said anything about having to be there any longer than a few days."

With the way the man in front of him narrows his eyes, Liam thinks he's just proved himself. Of what, he's not sure, but something.

"What are you doing here in the middle of the day, shopping like it's a Sunday afternoon?"

Liam looks down at his half-full basket, still prideful at being able to keep Zayn's attention. "The centre I work at is only a couple streets over. Sometimes I have to use my lunch break to stock up on food, otherwise it won't ever get done."

"Yeah, your 'About Me' thing said your work hours are all weird."

Hearing that Zayn went as far as reading his entire profile shocks Liam. He'd done the same to his of course, but knowing what he did about how Zayn wound up at the Japanese restaurant, he hadn't taken what was written there at more than face value.

"They're normal," Liam clarifies. "Just long. I usually get in for eight and leave at seven. My days off are different though - Wednesdays and Sundays. But during the Winter months it gets busy, weather and all. The homeless are more inclined to seek services now, so I go in on my days off if I need to."

"Are they paying you overtime for that shit?"

"No, I do it because I want to." Liam can tell the justification doesn't equate with Zayn, so he changes the subject. "Are your offices close to here too?"

"They're in Soho," Zayn states passively. "I had a meeting with an author nearby, but even though it was around lunch, the fucker didn't want to eat. Cheap bastard." The small snarl that comes over his lips amuses Liam. "So I'm stuck getting something here before I go home to work."

"That's cool you get to decide where you work for the day."

"Nah," Zayn goes back to looking through the options of chopped up fruit. "They don't know I'm going home. I'm just gonna."

"Oh..."

"So look, you free on Friday?"

Since Zayn refuses to look him in the eye, Liam doesn't want to get his hopes up in thinking this is going where he thinks it might be. "This Friday?"

"No, twelve Friday's from now." A small hint of blush crosses Liam's face at the sarcasm. "Yes, this Friday."

"I work, but like I said, I get off at seven."

"Good, then I'll meet you for dinner at half seven somewhere near here." One of the cantaloupe/honeydew mixes gets pulled off the shelf as the lucky winner, giving Zayn no choice but to look back at Liam's dumbfounded expression. "Put in your number."

Liam stares at the mobile that's come out of Zayn's trouser pocket for a beat before grabbing it and creating a new contact for himself. "I like Italian," he says boldly, smiling when he's handing the phone back and recieving a "don't push your luck" in return.

"I'll see you Friday then," he adds, seeing that he should take Zayn's advice and end the conversation while the impression he's made is still a good one.

"Yeah, and don't show up in a tie. You look just as handsome wearing what you've got on now." Before he turns around to walk away, Zayn gives the younger male a generous once-over. It's just as suggestive as it is respectful, and that alone renews Liam's captivation.

Looking down, he assess his blue jeans and green flannel shirt. It's about as average of an outfit as they come, and he's about to let Zayn know that, along with how he'll never be able to hold a light to Zayn's business attire even if he did show up in a tie, but when he lifts his head, the man's already gone.

Without a distraction, the noises of a busy supermarket come back into focus. Once enough time has passed for Liam to believe that what just happened wasn't a figment of his imagination, he examines where he's standing: the produce section.

_Why am I here? I was already here ten minutes ago._

As soon as he consults his phone to see what's next on his list, the memory comes back.

_Bananas, I owe you one._

* * *

**Z**

* * *

The alley's dark, but from where Zayn's lurking, he can make out just enough of the florist shop on the other side of the street to see what he needs. A brown breasted bird is sitting on top of the store's awning, its distinct white and black fantail sticking straight up and spread wide, ready for flight. Zayn's been watching the shop's door closely ever since he saw its delivery truck pass him on the walk to the restaurant he'd texted Liam to meet him at earlier in the week. A phone number Zayn's eternally grateful for having secured considering he had no intention on returning Liam's message online, regardless of if he found the male's looks, and interest in him attractive; if they hadn't run into each other on Monday, he wouldn't be standing where he is like a try-hard, waiting on flowers.

The next person who comes out with an order to put in the back of the delivery van is holding an armful of lily bouquets. Too fancy. He waits for the next. Orchids. _Way_ too fancy. Irises. The pink/purple mixture being loaded into the vehicle Zayn doesn't dismiss entirely. It's a nice bouquet, neither in your face, nor overrated. He's sold.

"That's the one, Kiwi," Zayn mutters lowly. "Wait for him to leave and then bring it here."

On command, the Fantail does as it's told, defying its weight of eight grams, and carrying the bouquet from the van all the way to where Zayn's still standing in the shadows behind an industrial bin without so much as a wobble. When he gets close enough, he drops the flowers for Zayn to catch, then perches on the edge of the bin.

"Thanks mate." Shimmying his left arm out of his unbuttoned blue and white striped shirt, Zayn pulls down the back collar of the ebony t-shirt that's underneath it. "Can you fit?"

The bird hops off the metal and onto Zayn's shoulder to evaluate the area that the human's hand is exposing. It chirps once before jumping towards the opening, its body morphing into the tan skin where the bottom of Zayn's neck meets his upper back. For good measure, he rubs the spot where the bird now lives as a tattoo.

As soon as he ventures out of the darkness with his outfit back in tact, Zayn sticks the bouquet under his shirt, waiting until he's out of the florist's line of sight to take it back out. He really doesn't care if Liam sees how much he "paid" for the bundle, surely it would only help his case if he did, but Zayn knows his mother would kill him if he didn't take off a price tag before handing over a gift, so for the remainder of his walk, he looks for a sticker.

Thankfully he doesn't find one, because the second he recognizes Liam standing outside the restaurant, shifting his weight between each foot nervously, he wouldn't be able to think of where a bin might be to toss it.

Liam's come dressed exactly how Zayn had told him to - casual. Under a sporty, lightweight three-toned jacket of steel blue, grey, and white is a slim-fitting, baby blue t-shirt, tucked into a pair of black chinos. Even the white trainers are relaxed, right down to their scuffed up toes.

"Hey."

Zayn's voice causes Liam to look up from his shoelaces and take his hands out of his pockets. He's shaved. Without the small amount of stubble that Zayn's only ever seen him with, he looks like he's just barely graduated uni. The sight's a breath of fresh air Zayn didn't know he needed; his lungs inhale and hold.

"Hi," Liam smiles, completely disregarding the flowers in Zayn's hand and leaning in to give him a hug. "You smell nice," he says as they pull away, but as soon as the bouquet's being outstretched towards him, he doesn't look to remember the compliment he's just made. He's stuck staring at the flowers in awe, like it's odd being on the receiving end of such a gesture - one that doesn't seem possible for someone to deem _him_ deserving of.

Zayn's fairly certain that with a look of pure astonishment like that, Liam isn't going to break out in hives any time soon, but it's always good to check.

"I hope you're not allergic."

"I'm not," Liam replies after pulling his nose away from the highest bud. "These are gorgeous, thank you."

Zayn nods, "Yeah."

Once he's done admiring his gift, Liam takes in his date's outfit. "You look great."

"It's what I wore to work," Zayn shrugs, knowing that it's nothing special, just one of the ensembles included in his Monday through Friday rotation, except with the top buttoned all the way up.

"Still looks great."

"Uh huh, you too," he rushes, pointing to the door of the restaurant. "Let's go, I'm starving."

Unlike the Japanese place they met at a week prior, this establishment has a much more laid-back atmosphere. The waiters are still in black and white attire, but there aren't any ostentatious decorations to be seen, nor are the tables crowded with fancy settings, including the one they're sat at in one of the restaurant's furthest corners.

"Are you going to get something to drink?" Liam asks when they're left with their menus and a trifold of the house wines.

"I wasn't planning on it," Zayn says, looking down the list of entrees. "It'd be a lot harder to take this seriously if I did."

"You're a funny drunk."

Hearing that brings Zayn's reading to a stop. He lowers his menu to make eye contact with the man across from him. "Are you only interested in dating me if I'm pissed?"

Liam's jovial expression falters, and it's then that Zayn's guilt makes a rare appearance. The younger man's doing his best to bounce back from looking like a helpless puppy, but Zayn's already making a mental note to actively lighten up so he never has to see that face again.

"Not at all," Liam replies earnestly. "I want to get to know you sober." Right as Zayn's eyes are about to cast back downwards, Liam adds, "But I still can't stop thinking about the manager's face when you asked for a to-go box of Nemo."

The blurry memory brings up a hint of embarrassment in Zayn, but he doesn't let it show, hiding behind his menu once more. "I've got to find a new sushi place to go to now."

"That shouldn't be too difficult, London's full of 'em."

That nice-guy attitude that usually gets under his skin is something Zayn was worried about agreeing to go out with Liam. Harry's got a similar personality, but Zayn puts up with it because at least being a therapist allows for his brother to see realism in everyday situations, he isn't blindly optimistic. It's the types that are, the glass is half-full kind, the ones who smile while they walk, the people that _enjoyed_ small talk, who deserved to get scared awake according to Zayn. They're living with a skewed perception of the world that needs realizing. Seeing Liam's pearly whites flash as a thank you to the waitress who's just taken their order brings back Zayn's fear that Liam's one of those. In his drunken haze, he thought he saw a glimmer of clear-sightedness in the man and the ability to recognize faults as faults, not label them as quirks or turn a blind eye to them. Now, staring at Liam, staring back at him like he's just happy to be there, all signs of any previous discomfort gone, Zayn hopes that he'll see the inkling of potential that he saw a week ago. Otherwise, he isn't sure they're going to make it to the film he planned on taking them to after this.

"Do you know how to act on a date that's meant to last longer than five minutes?" He asks, leaning back in his seat, trying to stay as open minded as Harry had told him to be in a good luck text sent before he left work.

"I know you're just kidding, but I definitely do." When Zayn opens his arms for Liam to go ahead, the younger man laughs. "Oh, so you're going to make me do all the hard work?"

"Impress me," Zayn says with a lick of his lips, watching how Liam uses his time drinking water to silently form a game plan.

"I take it your flatmate filled out your 'About Me' section?"

The mention of Louis almost causes Zayn to roll his eyes. "Unfortunately."

"It's all I've been able to really go by since I didn't learn much about you last week, other than you work in publishing and you like to wind people up." The beacon of promise shines once more at Liam's ability to bluntly characterize Zayn in a nutshell; it brings a proud smile to his lips. "But why don't you tell me if what he wrote is right?"

"Alright," Zayn coaxes, "go on."

"You like your alone time."

A small chuckle leaves Zayn's lips, "True."

"You need someone who can keep up with you."

He raises his eyebrows, "True."

"You hate authority figures."

"Did he really write that?" Zayn questions, brow creased at even Louis going so far as to include that.

"No, that one was just an inference of mine," Liam grins, satisfied at the reaction it garnered. "Kinda like how you're a night owl."

It's such an accurate perception, that Zayn's less infixed and more hesitant about how Liam can pick out his nightly habits so easily. He better not add on anything about liking to listen to music, otherwise Zayn's going to second guess if he did a good enough job ensuring no one saw him when he used the random geometric designs on his left knuckles to pick the building next to his' vent system and leave his boombox tattoo inside for the whole of the building to enjoy for the night. And next day. Zayn had completely forgotten to go back and retrieve it that morning.

Liam must sense Zayn's disquiet, pointing to his own eyes as further explanation. "You haven't been sleeping, but you don't seem very tired," he reasons. "So you must like staying up on purpose."

Getting called out for having dark-circles doesn't bother Zayn like it should, he's busy studying Liam carefully, wondering how secretive he needs to be if Liam's _this_ observant of things. "I like the mystery of the night," he tests bravely. "You can do a lot more without having all eyes on you."

"Like what?"

Liam's question is innocent enough, but Zayn's guard's already up, so his "anything" comes out sounding like a period more than it does a one word response.

"He wrote that you like to read," Liam says, taking the hint and going back to gaining clarity on Zayn's forged profile.

"That's true too," the older man replies, gracious that the subject's been changed.

"What sorts of things?"

Zayn's first reaction is to just repeat "anything", but he holds his tongue before it can slip out. Even though Liam had technically been the one to ask him out first, Zayn was responsible for putting things in motion, so he feels it's only fair that he goes back to being relaxed and meets the man halfway. Especially if he genuinely wants this to go anywhere other than south.

"Every morning I read the newspaper," he divulges, "but other than that, just fiction. I used to read a lot of literature when I was in uni, which wasn't too terrible, title depending. Now, I primarily read young adult fiction because of my job. I edit the hopefuls that get submitted."

"You get first dibs before they even reach the shelves," Liam says, thanking the waitress when she comes back with rosemary bread for the table. "That sounds like the dream for a reader."

"I suppose." Taking his knife, Zayn starts to cut the loaf for them. "Most of the time I've got to make a ton of changes and notes for re-writes though, so it's not as if I'm reading the final product right off the bat."

"Did you get to choose that department?"

"Sort of," Zayn replies. "When I applied it was just an open call for assistant editors, but they asked me where I wanted to end up eventually. So when I got promoted to associate, they put me in YA."

"Why not adult fiction?"

Zayn puts his knife down with the rest of his cutlery, switching his attention from the bread that's now divided up into long rectangles, to where Liam's combining olive oil and balsamic vinegar on his small appetizer plate. It's just the sort of hypnotic distraction he needs from the emotions that have just been stirred up inside him; ironically, the liquids do a good job of portraying how he feels towards books as a youth.

"I think reading's extremely important when you're young," Zayn responds once Liam's done pouring and goes back to surveying him from across the table. "It helps you understand the things around you more clearly, expands your imagination, betters you in other areas in school, does a bunch of shit." To try and take off some of the pressure that he feels from Liam's stare, Zayn decides to pour himself his own concoction for dipping, but as he reaches for the oil, he catches eyes with Liam. There's something in them that he can't pinpoint, something calming and trustworthy that makes him comfortable enough to give a more specific explanation as to why he loves reading books meant for a demographic he no longer fell into.

"One of my fondest childhood memories is learning English with my grandfather," Zayn admits stoically, eyes trained down on his plate that's now filled with yellow. "He always wanted to learn, but never had any time when he was working. So when he retired, all he did was try and teach himself. Whatever he'd learn during the day, he'd teach me too."

A brief silence comes over the table, leaving plenty of room for concern, but when Zayn can't add any more balsamic into his oil without ruining it and pretending like he did so intentionally, he steals a look up at his date.

Liam's merely sitting there, chewing a piece of his bread, taking in Zayn like he's both honoured at having been let in on such a personal anecdote, and fascinated in the story itself.

"When did you move here?" he asks after swallowing his bite.

"I got to the UK when I was nine." Bitterness at the journey stops Zayn from saying anything more than that.

"I can imagine moving from Pakistan would've been difficult at that age," Liam surmises.

"Reading played a big part in getting me through it." Further aggravation starts to surface, so Zayn's quick to deflect before it takes control. "Do you read?"

"Not like I used to," Liam professes. "But it wasn't fiction, it was mostly non-fiction things about community development. And I'm not even sure it counts because it was a lot of assigned reading for uni, but I really did enjoy it. It didn't feel like homework."

A fresh-faced, zealous version of the man in front of him pulls Zayn from out of the quicksand he just nearly fell victim to. "So you're really into saving the world, huh?"

Liam shrugs, going in for another piece of bread. "My family was very poor growing up. We lived in one of the most dangerous postcodes in the country. When I was twelve, I was held at knifepoint and robbed. The community centre I work at now is for homeless youth, so it's not the same thing, but I spent a lot of my time at a similar place after school to avoid getting jumped or roped into gang stuff when I was younger. I guess knowing what it's like to live a rough life makes me feel like what I have to say means something."

Zayn watches on as Liam dips his bread into the mixture on his plate, coating it well before bringing it up to his mouth, not an ounce of shame evident in his body language, nor his chocolate eyes. He's indifferent about the situation he's just explained, and the fact that he's not looking back at Zayn with any expectation of sympathy or pity makes Zayn gain a new respect for him; he's not as privileged as his pristine white skin or British features make him out to be. Not even Liam's accent accurately tells his story; it's far more posh than it is brummie. Zayn shouldn't have been so quick to judge, they've sailed similar seas. On different ships, but through the same choppy waters.

"I can see how reading might've been a nice escape for me when I was younger," Liam adds as soon as he's finished his bread. "You know, if someone had told me to give it a try. I was too busy playing football."

"You Brits and your football," Zayn says with a shake of the head, grateful for the mention of something other than unfortunate upbringings.

"You don't like it?"

"Fuck no," he laughs, then points straight at Liam's chest. "Cricket. Now that's a real sport."

Utter confusion blankets Liam's expression. "I don't think I've ever seen a game. Do you play?"

"No, I was always too small." Memories of a distant time when he watched other kids in the abandoned old car lot turned pitch from atop whatever mountain of crushed sedans he saw fit, floods Zayn's mind, as does the desperate feeling of wishing he could swing the bat with as much force as his neighbor, Faizan. At least his mother always sent him out with the largest canteen of water to withstand the heat from his throne. "I wake up early to watch it every now and again though."

"Maybe one day you can teach me how it's played."

It's sly of Liam to assume he can assert a second date into the mix like that so easily, and immediately calls for Zayn to officially drop the straight-edge image he had associated with him.

"What other riveting first date questions do you have up your sleeve?" he challenges. "You've got until the starter comes and then I'm cutting you off."

Zayn can see it in the way that Liam's lips part that he wants to protest, or at the very least confirm that they _will_ in fact be seeing each other far enough into the future that he doesn't have to worry about missing out on cricket lessons. But given Zayn's charitable allowance for Liam to indulge himself, he shuts up until he's thought up a worthwhile question.

"What's the most spontaneous thing you've ever done?"

As Zayn's mind runs wild, his lips slowly twist into a wicked smirk. There are far too many experiences to choose from since he moved to England. In the early days, living with Harry and his parents, Zayn had gotten up to a few things on his own, but they paled in comparison to what he got himself into after meeting Louis. "The Bristol Years" as they liked to call them, were wild with mischief, some of it legal, most of it not. But the instances that stuck out weren't spontaneous as much as they were acts of vengeance that Zayn needed to get out of his system and Louis happily assisted with; they weren't the fun, spur of the moment choices that Liam was asking for. Still, the smirk stays on his face as he sifts through the many malignant situations to find a socially acceptable one.

"Jumped in an empty freight train container and rode it for the day," he decides on.

The visual causes Liam's pupils to grow like saucers. "What? Why?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's illegal," Liam says, wondering why he'd have to state the obvious, while still trying to wrap his head around what it is Zayn's just confessed to. "And really dangerous."

Zayn stays unbothered, taking a sip of his water. "So what? It was fun."

"How far did you end up going?"

"From Bristol up to Liverpool."

"Then what?" Liam asks in a voice less panicked than before, but with the same eyes blown wide in amazement at the three or four hour trip that would've set Zayn back hundreds of miles.

"We just hung around there for a few days," Zayn answers.

It was about as easy as he makes it sound too. After he and Louis had finished their last exams of freshman year, they needed the absentminded roaming. Maybe Zayn more than Louis, since the latter already had years of knowledge beyond his Python coding class at the young age of nineteen, but nevertheless. A couple cheap hotels and baskets of fried cod and chips, and all the worries Zayn had of passing his English exams to a standard his parents would be proud of (and without any final marking alterations offered by Louis) were erased.

"We took the regular train back down when we got bored."

"Did your parents ever find out? Mine would've skinned me alive."

For a second, Zayn's so comfortable in their tucked away corner, head full of cherished recollections, that he nearly lets slip "which parents?". The need to catch himself spoils the mood and forces Zayn to divert his eyes away from the painting of random maroon brushstrokes that's framed behind Liam's head.

"Not unless my brother ratted me out," Zayn replies. "But he's not the type, so I doubt it."

"Are you guys close?"

If Liam asked the two men Zayn roomed with that question, he'd get the same answer, but structured in two radically different ways. Harry would most likely start off contemplative, telling Liam how, yes, they were close, that he wasn't the type to abandon family as if they were friends who made the choice to be in each other's lives. Zayn doubted that he'd mention anything about how they became brothers, or that it really _was_ his choice to stay as loyal to Zayn as he was to Harry after the former aged out of the foster care system, but he'd surely say something about how they had gone through too much together to be anything short of one another's number one.

Louis' answer would depend on when Liam had asked him. Eighteen year old Louis and present-day Louis would both agree that the brothers would take a bullet for each other, but it's the younger of the two that would have voiced his distaste for just how quick Zayn would offer himself up. It was difficult for him to come to terms with Harry _and_ Zayn coming as a package deal when he only planned on signing up for a relationship with the former. Zayn can remember it clear as day, the frustrated sighs that Louis would make any time he'd show up somewhere, expecting to only see his boyfriend, but being met with Zayn too. And even though Louis had eventually gotten over trying to maneuver around the bond the two shared, Zayn knows that he was probably a little peeved when he found out that Harry was looking for two bedroom flats in London, not one.

"Yeah," Zayn replies. "We're really close."

"Family's a big deal to me too, I've got two older sisters."

Underneath the table, Zayn's leg starts to shake as family stays the topic at hand. He's trying. To make this work, to hold back from becoming abrasive to someone who doesn't actually deserve it for once, to keep his cool. The only way to do that besides leave, is to stay quiet. So he does. Grabs two portions of bread and does his damndest to not wish it was roti.

"Well..."

Liam's voice has so much expectancy to it, that Zayn's natural reaction is to look up from his plate. "What?"

"Aren't you going to ask me what the most spontaneous thing _I've_ ever done is?" The man asks, tilting his head as if it'll goad Zayn into cooperating.

It does.

"What is it?"

"Guess."

"Jesus," Zayn mutters, stealing a glance to his left where the rest of the restaurant chatters away. After a few seconds, he turns back. "I don't know, jumped in a pool with all your clothes on?"

"I went skydiving," Liam states proudly, his soft cheekbones full from the smile he's wearing.

Zayn snorts, "Is that spontaneous, or just a death wish?"

"It was so exhilarating. We were in freefall for like forty-five seconds. I want to do it again one day." The energy that Liam speaks with is good enough for Zayn; he doesn't need to experience anything more.

"You're nuts," he dismisses quietly, picking up another thin chunk of bread while Liam ruminates, no doubt trying to come up with another question before his timer runs out.

"What's the one thing about you that I should know?"

_That in my spare time, I love to cause terror. That the only time the public ever sees me in my all black disguise, is when I want them to. That not even London's beloved hero, Red Valor, has caught on to my existence within the noble group he calls villains._

"That I hate talking about my past."

Zayn doesn't look up from where he's swirling the end of his bread around his plate. Blunt is how he operates, Liam's going to have to get used to that if he wants to have anything to do with him after tonight. What better way to start, than for Zayn to lay out his largest ground rule.

When Liam doesn't respond straight away, he adds, "And olives. I can't stand olives."

"Olive oil's ok though, yeah?"

Zayn's too grateful for such a reaction, that he refrains from berating Liam too harshly for the raw stupidity of it and instead, holds up his soaked bread as evidence. "Obviously," he deadpans. "Just not the black ones on their own."

Only the tiniest hint of scarlet surfaces under Liam's cheeks. "What about the ones in cocktails? The green ones."

"Are you going to go down the rainbow?" Zayn snaps. "I just don't like olives. Leave it at that."

Chewing the full piece of bread he's shoved into his mouth allows for the crudeness he'd just exhibited to sink in. With an empty mouth and clenched jaw, Zayn sees how his heated response has impacted Liam. The younger male can't hold Zayn's gaze, letting his line of vision trail to whoever's sitting behind them and beyond. It flickers back when Zayn nudges one of Liam's feet with his own under the table.

"If they ever come on something I order, I'll pick 'em off and throw 'em at you," Zayn offers, voice steady. "How's that sound?"

Sensing the warmth behind the words, Liam grins. "Like a plan.”

* * *

**L**

* * *

It's dark, but Liam can tell from the slight humidity in the air that it's going to rain soon. Rather than put a tarp over his charcoal grey motorbike and worry about whether or not it'll get blown over, Liam rolls it towards his flat's brick wall. Once he pushes the kickstand down, he looks behind him to make sure no one's walking by the opening between buildings. With the coast clear, he opens his right palm to the bricks and waves his hand horizontally. A line of the mud red rectangles comes out from the wall, but only halfway. Liam swipes one more time in the opposite direction and the bricks melt, their bubbling mass suspended in thin air above his bike. It stretches thin when he motions for it to do so with his left hand. One final swipe of his right and the bricks are back to solid, now a minor overhang for his bike to stay dry under for the night. After adjusting the duffle bag strap that's digging into his shoulder, Liam opens the side door to the building and starts his way up the stairs.

Much like it is outside, the inside of Liam's flat is practically pitch black. He almost makes it to where the light switch is, but he's stopped short by a wall of _something_ , and falls onto the carpet along with it.

As he lands, he feels for the culprit. Zippers, a hard shell, a protruding handle. He'd shout for Niall to come get his luggage, but with the entire flat a black abyss, it'd be of no use - he's clearly not home. Probably just got off the flight from Australia, chucked his bags as far as he could from the corridor, and then headed out again. Not that it's a big deal, Liam can pick them up and roll them over to his friend's room. Besides, better he get hurt than Niall; the Irishman can't heal a bruise in a fraction of the time it takes Liam.

Right as he's gathered himself and moved the bags out of the way enough to find the wall, the lights turn on from another source.

"Liam?" Niall stands in the hallway opposite the front door, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. He's shorter than Liam, and not built in the same way either - small in stature because he watches what he eats, not because he goes to the. If he did, he'd have that six pack he's so desperate to acquire by now. "Sorry about me bags. I thought I'd be up before you got home to move them."

"It's alright," Liam says, throwing his duffle on the cheap dining room table they found abandoned outside on the sidewalk around the time they moved three years ago. A few of the chairs around it may teeter when you sit on them, but they were free and a contribution to saving the environment through recycling, so Liam doesn't mind. They usually eat in the sitting room that's on the other side of the open layout flat anyway. "You just wake up?"

As Liam walks past the table to pour himself a glass of water at the kitchen sink that's a part of the 'L' shaped countertop situated against the far wall, Niall moves to collect his bags. "Yeah, this last flight really did a number on me. Fell asleep when I got in at four. Couldn't help it, the jet lag was just too much."

Liam reads the time on the microwave: 8:47 PM.

"How was your trip to Australia?" He asks, shutting off the tap. "Find any good golfers?"

"Too many. But I've only got space on the roster for two, so it's gonna be rough having to narrow it down."

Niall may have been a walking zombie not more than a second ago, but that lethargic pull is no more now that they're on to talking about his job. When Liam had first met him on a housing website for people in search of flatmates straight out of uni six years ago, he knew absolutely nothing about golf or that there was even a whole sports management side to the game at all. Although in hindsight, that seems quite naive of him considering on the other side of _every_ sport is a business. Now that he's spent so much time with the recruiter, Liam can safely say he knows the bare minimum about what makes a golfer outstanding versus just above average. Niall also loves to use the same phrases over and over again any time he watches a game ("can't teach that sort of a backhander" "smooth follow through" "he's gonna play it off like he meant to slice it that far"), so it could be that Liam's just a good listener and has a sharp enough memory to be able to confidently recite the one-liners in a room of golfers should he ever need to.

"I was gone for almost three weeks," Niall says when he comes back from putting his things in his room, grabbing a beer from the fridge and popping its top off on the edge of the counter. "What'd you do? Throw a few parties? Get a Valentine?"

"Neither, but I did go on dates Friday _and_ Saturday night."

Since Liam can tell Niall doesn't plan on going back to sleep, he leads the way to the two sofas that make up the sitting room, one facing a hanging flatscreen, and the other helping to close in a coffee table.

"Oh yeah? Where'd you meet these?"

"Speed dating."

Niall smiles around the neck of his glass bottle, taking a seat. "It's never anything normal with you, is it?"

Liam avoids his friend's pointed gaze, too shy to acknowledge his words straight on. If they were referring to just his love life, he might have been able to maintain eye contact, but he knows what Niall's getting at.

"It's not my fault that I've always led an untraditional life."

And when Liam says always, he means _always_ ; doctors weren't sure he'd make it past the first few hours after birth. According to his parents, all they were told was that something was wrong, he wasn't responding correctly, but that no one could figure out why. Yet despite constantly being ill, Liam somehow managed to make it to his fourth birthday. He just barely remembers the batch of cupcakes that his mum whipped up as a cheap solution to a real birthday cake, and the only reason he thinks he can is because they were also used to coax him back into the hospital the next day for another round of invasive tests. Sadly, there weren't any left for the ride home when he had to listen to his mother explain that they'd found out a kidney disease was what was making him so ill, and that he'd need surgery to fix it. What Liam didn't find out until much later on was that it wasn't just any kidney disease or any surgery. He was born with a genetic kidney disease so rare that no child had ever lived as long as him, and because of that, the only form of therapy available to possibly cure it was incredibly experimental. What was even more incredible however, was that Liam had survived it, and with two functioning kidneys to show for it no less. His parents dipped into their savings to buy him a real cake after that in celebration; Liam remembers, it was triple chocolate.

But being a marvel of science didn't change the struggle that his parents had putting food on the table and paying their council flat rent on time. It didn't make it so that he could feel safe walking home from school, or any less of a freak when he realized he could manipulate elements with his hands if he concentrated enough. Or that his weird ability to balance abnormally well and move as light as a feather, but with quick precision, could only be explained as side effects of his experimental treatment. Being a miracle child was both scary and great in that sense growing up, but by no means did it prevent him from needing to work full time all throughout university to pay the fees and housing costs. Liam couldn't even blame his relationships for failing during that time either, because while he was ambitious in working towards something that no other person in his entire family lineage could attest to, the constant cycle of work and revising hardly ever allowed for socializing. It's why after graduation, when there was no longer an institution in place where Liam could find like-minded and similarly aged people without a problem, he ended up turning to more unorthodox means - dating apps, mixer nights, speed dating.

In the beginning, when they had just moved in together and Niall realized that Liam didn't just swipe right and left out of the need for a quick shag or to see what all the hype was about, the man was dead serious about using it as a way to find his person, Niall had a real go at him. "You're a handsome lad. Young, hard-working. Why don't you try and find someone the normal way? It's not that hard." Except for Liam, jumping between work and saving lives, it was that hard. And even though his parents had to scrape by their entire lives to make ends meet (even to this day), they were Liam's number one inspiration for everlasting love, proof that while you may not have been blessed with the greatest of circumstances, you can still find happiness.

"I know," Niall says regrettably. "I'm just giving you a hard time. You've done a lot with the cards you were dealt." Liam's mouth opens to reassure his friend that it's not his fault, that he's been a huge help in getting him through it in recent years, but Niall keeps talking. "You gonna see either of them again?"

When he reminisces on his past weekend, any trace of negative energy leaves Liam's body. "The guy on Friday, definitely."

"Saturday was a bust?"

"No, she was nice," Liam replies politely. "We had good conversation, but I really like Zayn." His lips curl up slowly at the man's image forming in his mind, "He's different."

Niall squints passively, "Until you put a label on it, you're allowed to date more than one person at a time."

"That's not me."

A long sigh follows Niall's latest sip. "Yeah, I know." He relaxes into the sofa more, putting one hand behind his head. "So what makes this Zayn person so special?"

"I'm not sure," Liam answers quickly, thinking about it a bit more afterwards. "He's kind of an asshole."

Beer nearly sprays everywhere at Liam's open confession.

"What are you doin' messin' around with one of them?" Niall asks incredulously once he's managed to swallow his drink. "Did you forget who you are? The nicest boy next door. The one who throws their coat on a puddle for people to walk on. The boyfriend who lets their partner pick at their chips without getting angry that they didn't just order their own. You keep London _safe_ from all the assholes. What possesses you to want to date one?"

Nothing Niall's telling him isn't something that hasn't already gone through Liam's mind, yet he still sticks with his gut feeling. "I like how he speaks his mind. He doesn't let what other people think influence who he is. I find that kind of confidence sexy." There's turmoil brewing in Niall's gaze, so Liam's quick to add, "He brought me flowers."

"Doesn't sound like an asshole," Niall replies hesitantly.

"He also knocked over all the displays on the food counter at the cinema while he was buying us popcorn because the worker took too long counting out his change."

"I doubt that made them go any faster."

"She almost went into a panic attack." Liam's words don't help, Niall still doesn't look impressed. "But Zayn's never that way with me," Liam stresses, completely bypassing the few times Zayn _had_ snapped at him in the beginning; he'd never shown any other signs of aggression towards Liam since their fight on olives. "And he's really funny in a dry, sarcastic way. You'd like him."

"With that kind of an introduction," Niall says, eyebrows raised, "'m not sure I would."

"We've only officially gone out the one time, but we've texted back and forth quite a bit since." At the mention of their messages, Liam almost pulls out his phone, a flutter of hope that he's been on the other's mind since the last text that Liam had read right before getting on his bike and riding home. But he holds back, not wanting to seem rude or overly consumed by the dark haired enigma that he's starting to get caught up in.

"About what?"

"Books."

"You don't read," Niall reminds him with a smirk.

"No, but he does." Because it's relevant, Liam lets himself pull out his phone and scroll through his thread with Zayn, stopping at the title he needed help remembering. "Have you ever heard of _The Alchemist_?"

Niall chuckles, "You know I don't read either."

"He recommended it." The phone goes back in Liam's pocket. "I think I'm gonna get it."

"I know you're smart," Niall prefaces, "but this isn't going to turn into you pretending to be obsessed with books just to get him to like you, is it?"

"No," Liam replies firmly. "I know my limits, but I want to at least give it a go. You know, trying something new that's of interest to the other person."

Leaning forward, Niall motions for Liam to hand over his phone. "Let me see what this guy looks like."

In a flash, Liam's phone gets unlocked and Zayn's dating profile pulled up. Before he hands the device over, he uses both his fingers to zoom in on the candid photo of Zayn walking in a park, sharp jawline on perfect display right as he's turning his head to look at something in the distance.

"No wonder you want to go to the library," Niall says after scrutinizing the picture for a few seconds. "I'd read a book for him and I'm straight."

Before Niall can make Liam squirm with getting too explicit, the man swipes his phone back and locks the screen. "He's the quiet clever type," Liam replies. "I just want to keep up."

"He'll win me over if he takes an interest in _your_ work." Niall points his bottle in Liam's direction, "That's how you know he's a keeper."

There's no denying how refreshing a turn of events that would be. In the past, a few suitors had smiled and nodded whenever Liam had mentioned a volunteering opportunity or a fundraising event that he'd dropped as a hint for them to join in on. But on the day of, only one had actually shown their face, and it became abundantly clear that by the end of it, they were ready to leave, their attendance a product of compulsion rather than true intentions. Maybe Liam has a bad picker.

He stands and makes the few steps to the television stand, dropping down in front of the oak to lay parallel atop the grey carpeting. On the lower shelf, next to a video game console, sits a bulky police scanner. Liam twists one of its knobs. The box comes alive with static. He turns a few more and the noise unscrambles to something clear.

_"Two patrol cars have been dispatched, stand by."_

Liam's left hand falls to his side once the volume's been adjusted to something reasonable for he and his friend to talk over.

"Do you think a comedy show's a good second date?" He asks Niall, voice aimed towards the ceiling as he relaxes with closed eyes.

"Depends on the person. And the comic. You should go out for a few drinks beforehand to get loose though."

Liam makes a mental note to look for a comedy club later on.

_"DMV on the A40."_

"What do you think he'd say if he found out you were a superhero?"

Niall's question causes Liam's chest to rumble with laughter. "That'd never happen."

There's no need to even think twice about it. Not even his parents know that Liam's the one underneath the gold and red suit that's plastered all over UK media outlets anytime he makes an appearance, Niall's it. And that's only because he found the suit after mistaking Liam's duffle bag as his own in a rush to the airport one day. Liam will never forget the sheer panic that went through his body when he woke up and noticed the bag missing. It almost matched the trepidation in Niall's voice when he called Liam after finally getting to his hotel in San Francisco and finding a famous superhero uniform in his bag. The call wound up being short, Liam promising to explain everything when they were both in the same room again and swearing Niall to secrecy until then. He might've needed to show off his powers as soon as Niall burst through their flat door, but after he did, Liam was a bit relieved that he had someone to be able to talk to about his second life after twenty-two years. Including his theories on how there must be others like him out there who are willing to use their powers for good instead of evil, and how lonely it sometimes feels without any of those people coming forward, leaving him to go up against villains all on his own. But now that Niall does know everything, there's no need for Liam to let anyone else in on the secret, no matter how much easier it would make a relationship. And from experience having to lie about where he sneaks off to in the middle of the night or what's so urgent that he needs to cut a date short, he knows the amount of weight it would take off his shoulders as a boyfriend. Keeping his identity private is essential to avoiding becoming a spectacle or celebrity during the day when he isn't wearing his suit - still the best two hundred quid he ever spent online. All Liam wants to do is keep the world safe. Realistically, he supposes that if he ever found someone he wanted to marry, he'd have to figure out a way to go about telling them. Waiting to see if a child of his would inherit any of his powers probably wouldn't be the best time to break the news.

"I know it'd never happen," Niall says, "but humour me."

Keeping his eyes closed, Liam tries to come up with a relatively realistic scenario in his head.

They're in his room down the hallway, he and Zayn, sitting on the bed. It's a Sunday, so they've both been able to stay there all day without any responsibilities pulling them away; Liam hasn't even checked the police scanner once. Neither want to leave, but their stomachs have been growling for a while now; they emptied the fridge four hours ago. They're about to roll out of bed when:

"I'd tell him before he found out," Liam starts. "Say something like, 'I don't want us to have any secrets' and hope he doesn't get mad. At that point, we'd have been together long enough for me to not worry too much about him being someone who would just accept it."

"I can handle it because I'm your best friend and there's no feelings or commitment between us other than that, but I don't know if it's pragmatic for you to think that a person who's in love with you would accept that they'd never be your first priority, the city's safety would be." While Niall takes a long swig of his beer, Liam lets his words sink in. "I'm not trying to get you down or tell you that you shouldn't date, I just don't want you to think that happy endings always exist."

Niall's right, and Liam knows Niall's right, but for once, he doesn't sit and dwell or prepare for the future. He'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

"I can juggle my duties," Liam replies, opening his eyes and turning his head to the side so he can tune into another channel on the scanner.

"There's always the option to let the police do their job on their own," Niall reminds him. "Your suit's only there because you put it on."

That doesn't stop the guilt that Liam knows he'd feel if he resigned from his post as London's protector. There's a reason so many police have died trying to put away the villains he has - superhuman abilities are unmatched. To Liam, being bestowed powers comes with automatic responsibilities. If he chose not to assume them, it would be a disservice to society, not just himself.

_"BIP, Hammersmith. TFU on the way."_

The lists of police codes that Liam's memorized in years past allows him to decode the abbreviations rapidly. Break In Progress. Tactical Force Unit. On their own, each is enough to get him off the ground, but together, he's rushing towards the dining room table.

"They need me," Liam tells Niall as he starts to strip down from his day's clothes.

"Yeah, well, if _you_ need _me_ , I'm a call away. I'm gonna stay up for a little while and watch telly, so if I hear anything else important, I'll let you know."

In a split second, Liam's Kevlar suit gets pulled out of his duffle. A bright, daffodil yellow colour lines the edges of the thick material - over Liam's shoulders, the tops of his arms, underneath and down his torso to his ankles, then back along the insides of his legs. The rest is filled in a cherry red tone. A huge black 'V' is imprinted on his chest, the top points starting at each armpit and meeting right at his belly button; on his back is a mirrored image. In the red portion of each limb, there are also 'V' marks, one on the upper area and one on the lower.

While he slips on the costume like a wetsuit, he thanks his lucky stars that he's got a mate like Niall who also taught himself all the police codes to help out when he's in the mood. It was a very simple, "I don't need to hear the commentators when I'm watching sports to understand what's goin' on. It won't kill me to put the radio on low in the background and listen out every once in awhile when you're not here."

After he slips on his black, lightweight, military-grade trainers, and before he pulls his red mask over his face, Liam runs back in front of the TV that Niall's now turned on and sends his friend a smile. "I appreciate it Ni."

The Irishman waves his beer, "yeah, yeah. Get out of the way, you're blocking the highlights."

But Liam sees the affection in Niall's thin smile, he's far from annoyed.

"Don't wait up!" Liam calls, running down the hallway, mask snug around his head and face like a second skin, his eyes now the only exposed part of his body.

As he slides open the window that's next to his bed, he hears a faint, "I won't, but be careful!" There's nothing careful about the way Liam jumps out of the second floor flat and onto the metal bin below, but his heightened agility makes the landing look effortless. One more jump and he's jogging to where his motorbike's waiting a few meters away. So much for the homemade umbrella.

Rolling out the bike and putting it in neutral, Liam runs alongside it for a few meters until he likes the momentum enough to hop on. His left hand throws it into gear while his right pops the clutch. At first, a low purr echoes down the alleyway, but when Liam twists his right hand, the roar of the engine mixes together with the screeching of tires as he bolts out into the London streets.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Occasionally, Zayn wishes he never quit smoking. Sure his health's benefiting from it, and he's saving his mothers - foster and real - from scolding him to the high heavens, but there are some instances where it seems like the only way for life's stresses to melt away is to suck in as many chemicals as his lungs will allow. Namely, when he awoke in the middle of the night from nightmares worthy of haunting the coldest of hearts. Yet even without a cigarette between his lips, Zayn still finds a small amount of solace in venturing up to the roof where'd he go if he did.

A four story flat doesn't offer much of a cityscape view during the day, but at three in the morning, the darkness of the capital lends itself well to the vista; the lights of the expansive urban area say more than their clear details ever could. If only it weren't so cold.

"Come closer you two."

On command, the wolf on his right and tiger on his left shift so their fur can press closer to Zayn's body. He's wearing the outfit he always does anytime he plans on executing something sinister. Louis likes to call it his "villain suit", and even though that's technically an accurate label for it, Zayn doesn't like thinking of a jetblack, mesh tracksuit as a proper "suit". He hates being categorized as a "villain" too, but there's no room for argument there either. To help with the breeze that's picking up, he pulls out a black lycra ski mask from his pocket and slips it over his head. With his eyes the only part of his body uncovered (a pair of black tactical gloves that he found on Amazon while looking for a way to conceal his identity without breaking his bank, what's taking care of his hands), Zayn zips his jacket so the extra material from the mask can get tucked under and prevent cold air from touching any part of his skin.

Each animal is given short strokes to the backs of their necks, Zeus resting his head on Zayn's thigh and Hera making a few chuffing growls to show her merriment. Flanking him from both sides, they bring Zayn comfort, but not enough to ease the searing ache in his chest. He blames it on the manuscript he was editing before bed and how it revolved around a first year university student struggling to find happiness studying a subject chosen by their parents, hoping that the community art classes they took on the side would be enough to quell their true passion. It's just the right message to welcome a particularly foul memory into Zayn's subconscious.

_"That doesn't look like a monkey!" Zayn laughs, his eight year old body rocking backwards in his place on the family room floor. He puts his book down on the ornate rug that covers most of the room and uses both hands to pull his ears away from his head while filling his cheeks with so much air that they sting. The sound of his little sister Waliyha's giggles cause Zayn to break out of his act and make more of his own. " **That's** a monkey," he insists in Urdu._

_"Both of you make wonderful monkeys," his mother says from behind his sister's petite body where she's braiding the little girl's hair across from where Zayn's sitting. For five, Waliyha's dark black waves are long, nearly reaching down to her hips. "And Zayn, your English is outstanding. I don't understand much of it, but your pronunciations sound like the people in the films."_

_Pride surges through Zayn's skinny figure, a smile so wide on his lips that his cheeks hurt once more. The lamp that lights the entirety of the barren room is just enough to illuminate the pages of the chapter book about zoo animals going on an adventure that's now on the floor next to him. He'd been unbelievably excited when his little sister had seen the cover and asked for him to read it to her as a bedtime story rather than whatever Urdu book his parents typically read. When the two adults and his grandfather voiced their interest in listening as well, the entire family of five gathered in the front room; both bedrooms, the one shared by Zayn's parents and sister, along with the smaller that housed him and his grandfather, were too small for them to comfortably pay heed to the story at hand._

_To his immediate left, Zayn's grandfather rubs the young boy's back. "I'm very proud of you," he says softly. "You've surpassed me by a long shot."_

_Zayn's thin eyebrows pull together, "But you taught me before the teachers at school. I wouldn't be this good without you."_

_"Your brain is sharper than mine ever was, and ever will be," the old man replies affectionately, his eyes crinkled with adoration. "If you study hard, you'll be able to do whatever you want."_

_"What do **you** want me to do?" Zayn asks seriously._

_"No," the man shakes his head. "I don't want you to ask that. We all want you to be successful, and we know that you can be, but only **you** will know when you are because you'll think that way about yourself. You won't look to us for the answer."_

_His grandfather always spoke like such a wordsmith. Although he was more of a reader than a linguist, Zayn hoped that one day, perhaps he could know English well enough to sling together words in a complicated way that made sense, for no reason other than because his grandfather never could._

_"The same thing goes for your sister," the man adds. "I want to see her get an education before she gets married."_

_"She will," Zayn's mother affirms, placing a kiss on top of the girl's hair._

_From the rounded opening to the kitchen, a larger, more mature version of Zayn carries a bowl of various coloured grapes towards the rest of the family. Zayn can feel his taste buds water at the sweetness any of Quetta's famous fruits hold; he'll pop one of each in his mouth to savour as much as he can, especially because it's a treat to have any sort of dessert this close to bed._

_"Speaking of school," Zayn's father says with a voice that's strong, yet friendly all the same, "I ran into your teacher today on the way home." A million and one things rack Zayn's brain - mostly bad - as he tries to figure out what he should prepare himself for, but he can't think of a thing. "He told me there's a new boy in your class."_

_"Yusuf," Zayn provides._

_A warm smile comes to his father's face, the family gathering around the bowl that's been placed in the middle of the rug for all to share. "He told me you've been helping Yusuf adjust, and that you've become good friends."_

_Before he speaks, Zayn relishes in the sugary taste of the purple grape that he's just burst with his back teeth. "He's from Afghanistan, so he's having a hard time learning in Urdu. I thought, if I were him, I'd want someone to be nice to me."_

_Reaching forward, Zayn's mother cups one of her son's cheeks, rubbing her thumb on the soft skin that's underneath it. "That's so kind of you beta."_

_While he enjoys being praised, the sentimental look that his mother's giving him is a little too much for Zayn and forces him to pull away from her touch out of embarrassment. But as soon as his father's getting up once more, he's curious, and cranes his head to see why it is that the man's retreating to his bedroom._

_"I thought the same thing," he replies, returning to the family as quick as he left them. "Which is why I made a stop and got you this."_

_Out from behind his father's back comes a brand new paperback mystery book, in English. It's part of a series. Zayn knows because of how many times he's stopped at the same book store his father must have on the way back from school in the afternoons to run his hands along the spines of all the books he hoped to someday read. The English section wasn't big, and what it consisted of didn't have too many options for children, but Zayn still loved to ogle at the letters that differed so greatly from the flowing lines of Urdu._

_He's up in a flash, the late-night fruit completely forgotten now that he's holding a book so new that its cover makes cracking noises when Zayn bends it; he wonders how many hands have even touched it. The reality of such a thought makes his smile drop._

_"This must've been so expensive," he says, watching as his father goes from towering above him, to leveling their height by getting down on his knees._

_"Don't worry how much it cost." The man makes sure Zayn's keeping eye contact before he continues on. "I'm so proud of you for your schoolwork and you know that. But I'm more proud of you for having a good heart." He points to Zayn's chest, the tip of his finger pushing on the material of his ratty t-shirt lightly. "And not because someone told you to, but because that's who you choose to be when no one's looking. No amount of perfect grades could make me prouder than that."_

_Looking down from his father's gaze, Zayn stares at the two white, adolescent boys on the cover holding magnifying glasses. Another beat goes by before he's tackling his father in a hug. "Thank you Baba. Thank you so so much."_

_"You're welcome Zayn," the man says into Zayn's hair, holding him gently. "I can't keep buying you books, because you're right, they are expensive, but just keep being a good man and life will reward you."_

_Zayn can feel a kiss be pressed to the side of his head as he's about to pull away from the embrace. It's so comforting that he stays where he is, cherishing the moment for a little bit longer before he runs over to his grandfather so he can share in the exciting new English words too._

_It's as Zayn's reciprocating his father's kiss, that it starts._

_The first thing he registers is the man's arms squeezing him tighter, closer, safer. Next comes the floor shaking, which terrifies him to no end, but he's been through an earthquake once when he was younger, so he immediately labels it as that. Except, as far as he knows, earthquakes don't come with roaring booms._

_Instinctually, Zayn wants to raise his hands to his ears, but he keeps them around his father instead, too scared to lose contact with someone he knows would never let harm come to him. It's a smart choice, because a second blast comes a few seconds later, more violent than the first. Zayn worries that the roof might collapse in on itself. There's a ringing in his ears that causes him to feel lightheaded, and even though he'd rather not, he feels like he has no choice but to detach from his father and cup his hands over his ears in an attempt to stop the high pitched screech._

_He can't hear a thing, and his eyes are smashed shut, so he doesn't see his father shout for everyone to get under the rug; one second he's feeling himself get scooped up, the next there's a light weight on his back. He stays with his hands blocking his ears and his head in between his knees that he's crouched over, for what feels like ages. Eventually, the ringing stops and the sounds around him start to ease their way back to normal._

_His sister's crying, screaming in fright. He can feel himself hiccuping, but no sounds are coming out other than the occasional deep breath that his body takes for him since he's not yet fully aware to do it himself. Both of his parents are saying a prayer, and Zayn can feel his grandfather's wrinkled skin press against his bare feet._

_No other bombs go off, though it does take the family a full ten minutes before Zayn's father deems it safe enough to venture out from under the oriental rug. The house is fully intact, but Zayn's still a little shaky on his feet, so he doesn't go with his father to the front door to see how bad the street looks. He's able to see for himself when he wakes up and goes to school that the end of his block is destroyed. The mosque that used to stand there, nothing but rubble. As he crosses the street to avoid the mess, Zayn says a prayer for the place of worship._

It's one of the last ones he ever made. What was religion or a god good for if no safety came from the words uttered in their names? No blanket of solace to ease your mind that the men who were starting to come over the border from Afghanistan to escape the repercussions of an attack on the other side of the world, weren't there to hurt you? They weren't like the ones who Zayn had seen ride through the city in the back of trucks with automatic weapons that looked so ominous that his toddler mind couldn't comprehend them to be real. Those men had only been sighted a handful of times in the years before that fateful night. The ones that came around after weren't looking for an easy route to the mountains, they were here to stay. As were the white men who patrolled the streets constantly, speaking such ugly English that Zayn's grandfather had shoved his hand over Zayn's mouth when he'd come home asking what the phrases meant.

A cracking noise breaks through the silent London night, its deafening boom reverberating all the way from the electric sky down to the buildings below. Shortly thereafter, a bright streak of lightning snakes through the air. It takes a few seconds for Zayn to feel his arm tingle - a sign that the lightning bolt tattoo on the back of his upper right arm has materialized back to its rightful place.

Anger continues to course through Zayn's small frame at the memory and the events that followed. He stops petting Zeus and uses his left hand to summon the tattoo back out, throwing the shape that's seeped through the mesh of his clothing, towards the sky once more.

This time, windows audibly rattle from the thunder.

A car that's stopped at a light on the streets below catches his eye. It's a convertible, and that alone irks Zayn - owners who are so chovantistic that they insist on putting down the car's top to make a statement, regardless of how cold they must be at this time of the night. But it's when Zayn focuses enough to make out the drivers as teenagers, that his vexation skyrockets.

While he waits for the lightning bolt tattoo to regenerate, he pulls out another - his headphones. From where he's sitting, he probably won't be able to hear anything, but he fastens the equipment over his ears just in case.

The light turns green and the car speeds forward on the empty road, its passengers completely out of touch with the one percent life that they're leading.t

Two explosions crash through the night. One from the weather, the other from a car being struck by lightning.

He may not be tired, but Zayn's not in the mood to continue to brood on the icy cold roof; his mother would tell him to go inside already. So he does. Unzips his jacket for Hera to absorb into his skin, and guides Zeus (who can always pass for a Husky if someone in the building spots them) back down the stairs to their flat where Zayn stares at the jam-packed bookshelf in his bedroom for a considerable amount of time. Adult books mix in with children's, some English, some Urdu. He settles for a classic, _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._

It's short, not even two hundred pages, which for Zayn should only take a couple of hours, but he falls asleep with the book on his chest an hour in, Zeus guarding the door as always.

When he wakes the next morning, Mr. Abramo gives Zayn hell for the new under eye bags he's sporting, but it's all in good fun, so Zayn lets him get away with it. He's not as nice to Jenny from marketing, who asks if Zayn's alright when she walks in on him making coffee in the break room and sees how exhausted he looks.

"At least I'm confident enough to go out looking like this and not insecure to the point where I need to cake my imperfections with makeup or wear a pushup bra that's a size too big for me to feel good about myself."

He would've made another snide comment about how her running mascara's not going to make her look any prettier, but one of his higher-ups walks through the door as Jenny leaves, so Zayn's forced to keep the remark to himself.

Back at his cubicle, he considers how badly he wants to make his parents proud through his career. If he let the tattoo of a pair of plump red lips with a cloud of smoke billowing out of them on his right hand engulf the room in smoke , that wouldn't be so bad, right? It'd only cause the building to evacuate and the fire brigade to come and investigate.

A small buzzing noise derails his train of thought. Picking his phone up off his desk, Zayn sees a message from Liam's come through.

**_How's your morning been?_ **

_Shit, as usual,_ Zayn thinks. He nearly types it too, but then he remembers how he's trying to actually make an effort with Liam and holds his fingers back.

Almost a week's gone by since their first official date and in that short amount of time, Zayn's surprised himself on how much attention he's been giving the other male. He knows Louis and Harry can tell that something's been up too, what with the way he's been checking his phone so often and even letting out a few laughs here and there when he does. At one point, Louis couldn't handle the secrecy and jumped Zayn while they were all sitting around watching TV, snatching his phone and acting like a primary school girl, reading Zayn's conversation with Liam out loud with an overly sweet voice. Since then, Zayn's learned to immediately lock his phone after every message he sends.

**Couldn't sleep, so I stayed up reading. Wish I could crawl under my desk and sleep**

In his peripheral, he can make out a few coworkers that he knows are friends of Jenny looking his way disapprovingly. Before he does something he regrets, Zayn rolls himself further into his boxed in space and ducks his head, waiting for Liam to message back and keep him occupied with something positive.

**You could build a proper fort under there and everything! Use some scrap paper and make a sign that says 'Keep Out!' so no one bothers you either**

Without overthinking it, Zayn replies with the first thing that pops into his head.

**It'll say 'Keep Out!' and then in small print: 'unless your name's liam payne'**

Heavy footsteps drive Zayn to lock his screen and look like he mildly gives a damn about the many emails that are sitting in his inbox.

* * *

**L**

* * *

Liam doesn't mean for it to, but when he enters his flat, the door slams shut behind him. He's glad Niall's got to be in for work at half eight, otherwise he'd feel bad for the loud _boom_.

After pulling out the earphones that have been his source of entertainment for that morning's run, Liam walks towards the living area and leans over one of the couches to reach the remote. Once the channel's been turned to the morning news, he ventures over to the kitchen, taking out a glass and filling it with water.

"And if you woke up last night from shaking, no that wasn't an earthquake, but a freak thunderstorm. People from all around the capital reported a series of cracked and broken windows from how strong the noise was. Unfortunately, four teens in the Hoxton area fell victim to the storm. At three AM, one of the storm's lightning bolts struck their convertible and killed all on impact. According to a statement made by one of the girls' parents, the young man driving took his father's car out for the night without consent. A few people had complained of the car's reckless driving prior to the random storm, but it's the porter of a nearby building that called the authorities to report the car being struck. Police and emergency vehicles arrived within minutes, but all passengers were pronounced dead at the scene. Our thoughts and prayers go out to their families. On the other side of the city, a much more heartwarming story took place with an unlikely friendship between a dog and a cockatiel."

_Death by lightning, how rare,_ Liam thinks while pulling out the eggs and vegetables that he plans on mixing together in an omelet. He remembers waking up in the early hours of the morning, wondering if he'd dreamt up feeling the room rumble, only to be corrected when a flash of white lit up his room moments later. Perhaps the reason the car was such an easy target was because at three, there weren't many others; the streets must've been deserted. But even at that time, night buses are still running. They're much larger and made of way more conductive metal than a convertible. So why not one of them? Science, Liam will never understand it.

As he waits for the hob to heat up, the phone in his pocket pings, a smile immediately coming to Liam's face when he knows who it's from. If it's even possible, the grin widens at the flirtatious response Zayn's texted back. He knew it was a risk to message the man this early in the morning since Zayn had made it abundantly clear that he despised going into his office to work, but Liam couldn't help but shoot him a quick text as soon as his run ended at the front of his building. And he's glad he did. The image of the two of them in a childish fort is one that Liam's now craving to make a reality.

**I'm honoured 😊 is there a password to get in?**

Once his phone's set down besides the egg carton, he focuses on the task at hand, pulling out a pan and unceremoniously throwing all the ingredients he's retrieved inside. He's about ready to stand there and watch the mixture solidify, but then he remembers that he put in a load of wash before he left.

Liam's suit as Red Valor comes out of the machine in a damp ball. Holding it by the collar, he shakes it out, checking to make sure that the oil stains that had rendered the material practically black had come out; he knows from past experience the right amount of soap and what temperature to set the water to make the dark splotches disappear, but it's a habit. The same can be said for Liam eyeing the suit for bullet holes. Clear of any knife marks or gaping holes from helping the tactical force unit defuse a hostage situation at a factory site two nights ago, the material's slipped onto a hanger and left to dry from Liam's bedroom door frame.

Over the years, the suit and Liam have become one. Technically, it's his second. The first was a massive waste, suffering great damage after only a few stabbings. He learned then that Kevlar is the way to go in order to avoid constant repairs and losing the sense of completeness that comes with having a visual identity to go along with his alter ego. Plus, it doesn't hurt the unbreakable material makes it a lot easier for the general population to explain how Red Valor can withstand attacks that would normally kill a man. They're lucky, it took Liam years before he came to a conclusion on how his body can heal the way it does.

It started immediately after his kidney surgery. At first, he didn't think much of the needle marks where he had blood drawn to check on his treatment's progress, going away within a few hours. At age four, he just thought the plaster slapped on by the nurse had done its job. It's when he was five that he realized there was no way a plaster could heal a knee that got cut up from running and tripping on asphalt in thirty minutes. He hadn't even meant for the bandage to come off, it just peeled off when he changed into a less bloody pair of shorts as soon as he got home, no sign that the skin had broken at all. By the time he was nine and bullies started to enter the picture, Liam was convinced something was up with his body. The bruises he accumulated from staying balled up in the fetal position anytime the gang of ten year olds encircled him on the playground, were always gone by the time he managed to hobble to the toilets and survey the damage.

His abnormal balancing abilities and enhanced agility were a lot harder to recognize, but nothing hit him quite like the time he woke up to his bike having been bent, most likely by a car backing into it. He was eleven, and with his mother working around the clock and father recliner bound, that bike was the only way he could get around town; it was his last semblance of normalcy, regardless of whether or not he had outgrown it long before. His family wouldn't be able to afford a new one, there was no way. That's why even though it was impossible, Liam still carried it to the back of his flat building to figure out a way to fix it.

If anyone would have been there to watch him put his hands on the mangled tire and try to pull it back into shape, they would've burst out in laughter. He knew in the moment how ridiculous he looked doing it, but he's thankful that his desperate, adolescent mind did it anyway because it's how he found out about his most important power.

Under his weak hands, the bike's metal frame bent back. Staring at a perfectly round tire was equally as terrifying and as it was confusing. He'd known something was different about him for a while now with the healing and being able to walk along fences without so much as a teeter one way or the other, but what was this? Could he melt things? Were his hands flammable? But a quick test with the ground below showed that that wasn't the case; neither the grass, nor soil caught fire. They didn't do anything as a matter of fact. With a new gift to figure out, Liam rode his way to an abandoned warehouse that at one point in time used to be an airplane repair shop, but now only served as the location for occasional drug handoffs.

After making sure he was the only one there, he went up to a low window and pushed to see if what he had was super strength. Nothing. He tried staring at the glass to see if he just needed to concentrate for something to happen, but that got him nowhere as well. He looked around and saw a wooden chair, walked over, put both his hands on it and pulled, much like he had with his bike frame. The backing broke in half. Then, the piece that was still in Liam's right hand broke in half once more. It kept breaking again and again and again until it couldn't reduce itself to anything smaller; it had already produced a pile of splinters. He remembers being even more perplexed as to what it was he could do after that, but the feeling only grew when he went to toss the handful of wood onto the ground and the thin pieces hovered in the air below his palm. Experimentally, Liam moved his hand around, watching as the splinters followed. He pushed his hand forward with emphasis and nearly jumped back when the pieces flew like spears to the other end of the room, lodging themselves into the wall intimidatingly. It took him a while, but when Liam found a piece of scrap aluminum, he tried the same thing, and even though it went wherever he commanded it to, he couldn't get it to break into pieces like he did the wood. So he tried melting it, and sure enough, it went from a long sheet of scaffolding, to a puddle of silver liquid. In his mind, Liam told it to harden. It did. With his palms faced towards it, he thought about its melted form. It went back. Instead of hardening it into its original shape, he moved his hands around and hardened the metal once it looked like a metallic full moon. Cautiously, he went up to touch it. He knew that his fingers would heal if they burnt from the scorching hot temperature it took to melt the metal, but he was still unsure of what this newfound power was, so he touched the metal with great hesitancy. It wasn't a centigrade over room temperature. After that, he went back to the window and melted it down, forming it into the shape of a box. For the rest of the day, Liam messed around with any sort of solid thing he could find, manipulating it in the hopes that he'd be clever enough to find out what the common thread was. On the ride back home, he thought long and hard about why it might be that he can melt just about everything except for wood and rope. For weeks, he struggled to answer that question, until one day in science class his teacher started to talk about elements and their melting points for changing states. He raised his hand to ask about wood and why it wouldn't melt, along with paper or clothing. It was a simple answer, but it's all that Liam needed to hear to understand the key to his most powerful ability - changing states isn't always done by melting, the properties of the elements that make up the material will signify how it will break down.

Another ping brings Liam out of his reminiscing.

**I've got a beautiful smile**

Upon first read, he's confused, but when he goes over the text again, the cleverness of Zayn's password being a first person compliment becomes apparent.

**Oh he's mr. charming?**

Chucking his phone in his pocket, Liam flips the omelet and lets it cook for a minute. On the way to the couch, hands full, another ping chimes over the newscaster.

**He can be VERY charming if he wants**

Liam throws his head back against the sofa cushions. Zayn's done his fair share to prove that his wit couldn't - and shouldn't - be messed with, but if he can be sickeningly sweet on top of that, Liam's going to be in trouble.

**Do you think you might want to be on Saturday? I saw an ad for an open mic night that might be fun to go to**

And by saw, he meant heavily researched, but that little bit of information didn't need to be brought up.

**As long as you'll be there, it'll be fun.**

**How's that for charming?**

The back to back messages rip Liam apart in the best of ways, his smile so wide, he isn't sure what to make of it.

**But can you keep it up or are you just on a lucky streak?**

It's a semi-rhetorical question, one that Liam hopes the other can decode as such. He doesn't expect for the next few days to include random flirtatious messages that border on stupidly cheesy, nor does he know what to say when Zayn pulls open his leather jacket to reveal a chocolate bar sitting in the lining pocket as soon as they take their seats at the comedy club.

"The sign said no outside food or drink," Liam whispers, not finding it in himself to be anything more than leniently bitter since Zayn had remembered his guilty pleasure among the countless other tidbits he's recently disclosed. And because he's starving; there was no time between when he got off work and when he told Zayn to meet him at nine to grab a bite to eat, nevermind go to the pub Niall had suggested beforehand.

"Look at me." Liam tilts his head up and is met with a bored expression. "Do you think a piece of paper laminated by an intern is going to stop me from doing whatever I want?"

Liam considers what sort of blatant regard for social normative behavior Zayn's shown while he's been in the other's presence; ultimately, he stays quiet.

"Take it or don't," Zayn says listlessly. "I got you the posh kind from Ecuador, wherever the fuck that is, so you better believe I'm eating it if you're not."

Geography never was Liam's strong suit when he was in school, so he's got zero idea where Ecuador is on a map, and that fact alone tells him to what degree Zayn had to go out of his way to buy something of interest to Liam. Because he's curious, he thinks about asking Zayn where he got the chocolate while he slides the bar out of his pocket and unwraps the top to break off a square, but Liam's too afraid he'll hear, "there's a shop right next to my work that sells them" and ruin the magic. So instead, he utters a small, yet strong "thank you" once Zayn offers him the first piece.

No response comes from it, Zayn only snaps off a piece for himself and returns the bar to its hidden compartment at the same time the MC for the night comes out to introduce the first act. From then on, every seven or eight minutes, the chocolate gets pulled out, Zayn always making sure that he discreetly hands Liam a square prior to taking one for himself. He doesn't laugh much, however. Not like how Liam does.

The first middle-aged, divorced man has a few punchlines that aren't bad, mostly revolving around self-loathing jokes to try and get the audience to relate. Zayn just sits there, blank faced, legs spread wide, waiting. For the man to bomb or to prove himself worthy of Zayn's time, Liam can't tell, but he gets his answer when the clapping Zayn gives at the end of the set is lackluster. And that's being generous. But it's better than the zero clapping he gives the second person - a woman who does a whole ten minute bit on healthy eating trends, to which Zayn eats an entire row of three squares. In rebellion, Liam guesses. At person four, Zayn runs out of chocolate. And patience.

"I can't stand this," he grumbles, shifting in his seat to sit up straighter.

Even though he believes it to be rude to talk while the show's still going on, deep down, Liam agrees. The first guy was the best, which was probably why he opened. The man that's currently pacing the stage has been on about social media millennials for five minutes too long. Nevertheless, Liam's not one to speak ill about anyone, nor be anything other than respectful, which is why it's hard for him to lean into Zayn's space and whisper, "There's only two more." But he wishes he just stayed quiet, because almost immediately, Zayn's looking over his shoulder at where they came in with a look in his eye that Liam's starting to equate with impishness.

"Not for me there's not." Liam's jumper sleeve gets a hard tug. "Come on."

"Zayn!" He whispers loudly after the man who's just gotten up, having no choice but to follow, embarrassed.

"Look at this guy!" The comedian on stage exclaims, all eyes turning to where he's pointing at Zayn, leading a very sheepish Liam to the door. "Too good to sit amongst us. I can hear him crafting a tweet to his twenty followers like it's a manifesto now." Without even giving the man a glance, Zayn flips him off. "Look at him, he's got on a leather jacket like he's some sort of greaser. Mate, you a greaser?"

A roar of laughter fills the room, the microphone catching the comedian's own chuckles and echoing it into the audience. Zayn stops and turns his head towards the man that's underneath a heavy spotlight. Liam holds his breath.

"Only if you're the lad from 'Where's Wally?'"

The crowd, Liam included, bursts into a roar of laughter louder than they have all night while the comic's left staring down at his red and white striped t-shirt indicative of the children's puzzle book character.

Liam's attention is stolen at the sound of the metal crash bar handle of the front door being pushed. He follows Zayn outside in a rush, watching as the other makes a beeline for the nearest bin where he throws away the empty chocolate bar wrapper.

"So you liked this then?" He asks, holding up the foil in reference before tossing it.

"Yeah, I did." Zayn's already walking down the sidewalk, but Liam glances behind him at the comedy club's entrance once more before catching up. "You couldn't have waited for the last couple people to finish before leaving?"

"No," Zayn says bluntly, "I couldn't."

Liam shoves his hands into his jean jacket pockets for them to keep their feelings. Despite only being inside the small club for forty-five minutes - at most - it seems like the outside temperature has dropped dramatically since their arrival. "It takes a lot of courage to get up there and do something like that, don't you think?"

"Not really."

Liam looks to the side, hoping that he can interpret more from Zayn's answers by seeing the expressions that go with their frankness. "So if I signed you up, you would do it?"

"Why would I want to make a room full of strangers laugh?" Zayn retorts, his right eye scrunching up in distaste, like it's a mannerism of his provoked by moronic questions. "I don't have a superiority complex." Liam thinks he might, but. "I know I'm better than those people, no mediocracy to cover up here."

"So you were born this arrogant?"

When Zayn stops abruptly, so does Liam. He hardly realizes they've stopped in front of a chain cafe.

No," Zayn refutes playfully with a smile that Liam's quick to mirror, "I was born a gentleman."

Liam stares at the door that's being held open for him, stepping inside and revelling in the establishment's heating, along with the hint of thrill that comes from Zayn telling him to pick out whatever he wants, the store's his. The place doesn't exactly have a five-star spread, though Liam does eye the sandwiches in the glass case that have made it to the end of the day. But he doesn't want to make a meal out of this when all Zayn's ordering is a tea to warm up, so he merely follows suit and tells his stomach to hold off a little while longer.

"You wanna take a walk around the park?" Zayn asks as he's stirring a little bit of milk into his tea in front of the cashier who's still more than annoyed at the fight Zayn had put up regarding letting him use the milk for a drink other than the coffee it was meant for.

"Sure."

Finishing up with the milk, Zayn catches Liam staring at the food for a second longer than normal. "Hey, we'll take one of those cheesy croissants too," he tells the worker, digging into his jacket pocket for the coins that were just thrown in there.

Liam's head snaps up, eyes wide at the item he was staring at being pulled out of its lineup with tongs. "Zayn, you don't have to-"

"Do you want it heated up?" The worker asks, unsure which of the two to direct the question towards.

"Do you want it heated up?" Zayn repeats, eyes on Liam expectantly.

"Um, yes." Turning to the worker, Liam nods, "Yes, please, that'd be great." While the food's being shoved into a toaster oven, he frantically pulls out his wallet. "You shouldn't have to pay. You got the tea."

"I told you the store was yours and I meant it." Zayn pushes the hand that's holding the card holder back in the direction of Liam's trouser pocket. "You don't pay when you're with me."

Without having a preference on gender when dating, Liam's come to know the financial power struggle in each relationship to be exactly that - a struggle. Some women were traditional, while others proceeded to lose their shit any time Liam would make a movement for the bill, accusing him of taking her as someone who needs to be bought or couldn't be considered independent enough to pay a tab. Men were always a wildcard too. There are those that insist on paying to make an overly masculine statement, and then there are others who look at Liam like they're basing whether or not he's husband material on just how quick he _does_ reach for the check. His favourite, by far, was the non-binary person he went on a few dates with. They fell into a perfect habit of one person paying one time, and the other, the next, all without even saying a word. Heaven. Now, watching Zayn toss two pounds into the tip box and forcing the worker to fish it out as his payment as he walks away, Liam's thinking that to play it safe, he should probably just take the submissive role when it comes to money. If he had to guess, he'd say the rest of the areas of a relationship with Zayn as well, but it's still too early to tell if that's the right assumption to make; Zayn could also be the type to roll over in the middle of the night demanding to be the little spoon. God knows Liam's had enough experience putting himself out there, that it wouldn't surprise him if he did have to be the one to stay rigid at the end of a meal and pliant at the end of a night.

The vintage gas lamps that are dotted around Hyde Park bring a very British charm to the otherwise invisible three hundred and fifty acre commons; the clouds in the sky have taken away any chance of the moon lighting what the lamps can't. Even as late as ten, there are still people riding bikes along the pathways, although almost all who Liam's seen are clearly using the park as a shortcut rather than enjoying the scenery. Several runners brave the cold alongside them, a select few with dogs in tow.

"If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?"

Liam's voice breaks the silence between the two men, Zayn swallowing his latest sip before responding. "Why are you asking me that?"

"Why not?"

Rubbing his fingers on his black jeans to get off the last of the oils from his croissant (finished in no less than four bites and before they even reached the corner entrance to the park), Liam clears his throat, a look of amusement coming over him when Zayn replies, "Do you want answer number one or answer number two?"

"What's the difference?"

Zayn holds out both hands like a scale, "One's the truth and one's a lie, so I'd choose carefully."

Knowing he can't win, Liam goes with the second option - the hand holding Zayn's tea.

"I'd ask for a switch blade hair comb to complete my greaser look," the man replies cheekily.

They may not be under the best of lighting, but Liam still takes the opportunity to reevaluate the look he'd deemed as stylish upon first glance and on brand with who Zayn Malik is starting to show himself to be. Underneath the leather jacket is a white tee and plain silver necklace. For bottoms, he's wearing regular black jeans like Liam, but they differ with their shoes - Zayn in thick, black boots and Liam in white trainers.

He knows it's a joke, but the man really does look like a greaser, especially with the way his pompadour swirls a little bit more than normal in the front. He's intimidatingly attractive, both because of the outfit, and from his overall modelesque appearance.

"What about you?" Zayn prompts, not bringing any attention to the way Liam's been staring at him as they've been walking for the past few meters. "What would you ask the magic genie for?"

"Guess."

Without hesitation, Zayn rolls his eyes at the juvenile request. "A matching jacket and comb to be as cool as me?" He pulls at the lapels of his jacket, a few of the decorative zippers sewn onto the front clinking as he does.

"You do look quite cute," Liam smiles, feeling bold enough to even swipe his tongue over his lips after stating his opinion.

"I said _cool_ ," Zayn corrects, "not cute."

"You're both."

There's no blush on Zayn's cheeks, Liam doesn't think he's capable of that, but he can tell the other man's taken by the compliment based on the way he neither looks Liam in the eye like the lad's trying to get him to do, nor directly comments on it.

"So what's the real answer?" he asks instead. "I did my part and guessed."

"World peace."

Liam's entire body leans backwards as he laughs at the way his answer's frozen Zayn in his spot a couple steps back. The man's got this boorish glare that he's sending Liam, and if it weren't for the paper cup in his hand, he'd probably have his arms crossed over his chest out of petulance as well.

"No, come on," Liam pouts, retreating the few steps it takes to pull on Zayn's wrist gently. "I'm just kidding."

"No you're not," Zayn replies gruffly, carrying on. "That's the thing."

"I am," Liam promises. "I'll give you a better answer."

Hesitant to comment, Zayn stays sipping his tea, somewhat impressed when Liam comes up with "time machine".

"To go forward or back?" he questions. "You only get one choice."

"But it's _my_ time machine." Seeing how he's on the verge of actually pissing Zayn off, Liam abides and gives a straight answer. "Way far back. To see the dinosaurs and stuff."

" _That's_ why you want a time machine?" Zayn says, his facial expression matching his cynical tone. "To see dinosaurs and stuff? You know the Natural History Museum's like right over there, yeah?" The south end of the park gets pointed to with Zayn's cup. "I can take you to see the dinosaurs now, you don't need a bloody time machine." Disgusted by the choice, Zayn shakes his head. "You're horrible at wishes."

"Like your comb was any better!" Liam strikes back lightheartedly.

"It's not my fault you chose the wrong option."

"Fine." Sour at needing to change his reply, Liam turns up the sarcasm. "I'll go into the future to ride in flying cars and have a personal robot."

"Hey," Zayn replies, knocking shoulders with the other male. "Don't talk down on robots. I've got a tattoo of one."

Pausing their walk, he shimmy's out of his right jacket sleeve, the white layer underneath a short sleeve tee, able to show off Zayn's entire sleeve of ink. He twists his forearm to show Liam where there's a robot sitting down with a pair of headphones on, a long cord connecting them to the old-school boombox on its right.

Not since their infamous speed dating matchup has Liam seen the tattoos; the winter weather's to blame for their absence. He registers the friendly robot that's extremely minimalistic, but his eyes can't help but wander around the rest.

"How many do you have?"

"Robots? Just the one, he cleans my room." When Liam goes from staring at the art, to Zayn's eyes, he finds them to be glistening back at him already. "I lost count after thirty," the man replies once he's proud at having made Liam smile at his joke.

"Which was first?"

It's subtle, the way Zayn breaks their gaze to point out a specific part of his upper chest with a few extra blinks than necessary, but Liam picks up on it.

"Uh, my grandfather's name," Zayn says. "It's against my collarbone here."

He's uncomfortable now. To make it seem like Liam can't tell, he nods and looks straight at Zayn's right collarbone. None of his superpowers from gene mutation include mind reading, but Liam's undergone enough training on how to quickly assess a person's emotional wellbeing for his job, that he may as well have a sixth sense.

"Do all of them have meanings?" He asks patiently as Zayn slips his exposed arm back into its sleeve.

The older male gives him a genuine laugh, "Anyone who has as many tattoos as I do and says that each has a meaning is lying to you. Trust me."

Liam looks to his left, right eyebrow cocked in skepticism. "Why should I when you proved yourself a liar not even five minutes ago?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Zayn smirks. "I'd never lie to _you_. You're..."

Slowly, Liam comes to a stop when Zayn's thoughts end there. "I'm what?" He asks, coy in his delivery, but nervous in his mind.

With a relaxed stance, Zayn speaks without any qualms. "You're too deserving of anything less. From me, and from the rest of the world."

It's such a sincere response, nothing like Zayn's usual brazen ones, that Liam wrestles with letting the butterflies that have gathered in his stomach loose.

"Yeah?" He checks, head tipping to the right slightly. "You think so?

Zayn nods, taking a steady few steps forward to eliminate any space between them, his eyes briefly lowering to where Liam's teeth have caught his lower lip. "You're captivating," he confesses softly.

The serenity of the park lends itself to the moment. The only sounds Liam can hear are the beating of his own heart and the odd car traveling around the grounds' distant edges. He breathes in deeply when it's clear what Zayn intends on doing, the male's free hand snaking in between them and cupping Liam's left cheek. Instinctively, Liam places his own on Zayn's hip, closing the gap between them for their lips to meet.

Gentle, that's all that Liam can think when he feels how Zayn takes his time leading them. It's not a rough kiss like the other's temperament might've otherwise suggested, and it leaves lots of room for Liam to wonder if his earlier thoughts on sleeping arrangements would be true.

"And you're not as much of a bad boy as you like to make yourself out to be," Liam smiles when they part, welcoming the second kiss that comes from his words. But he should've known better than to think he'd get away with them free of any berating.

"Watch it," Zayn growls, voice low after biting down and tugging Liam's lip teasingly. "You're talking to a hardcore greaser."

Running his tongue over his lip once Zayn's given them space and is downing what's left of his tea, Liam tries to pull himself together. "Right, sorry."

Except, if he didn't know any better, he wouldn't classify Zayn as all that bad with the way he screeches in fright when he almost falls into the park's largest lake after Liam wonders how cold the water is out loud and Zayn offers to check for him, chest puffed out. Or how, even though he's only wearing a t-shirt underneath his jacket, he still offers it to Liam when London's typical nighttime breeze picks up. "You've got about two stone on me, but if you put it on under your jean jacket, I think it'd fit." Liam politely refuses, not wanting to leave the other exposed like that, though he does take note of the peaceful gesture.

However, as they exit the park, Liam's reminded of the other's spitefulness the moment Zayn starts a massive altercation with a dog owner who left his pet's mess on the grass without so much as a second glance. At least the empty threats he threw were strictly vocal. Because Liam could deal with tugging Zayn along by his sleeve away from the situation so he could calm down, but he's not entirely sure how he'd handle Zayn actually slashing a person's tires like he claims he will after a driver shows signs of impatience waiting for the two to cross the street. Thankfully, they make it to the Tube station without any knives being shown.

"Is your leg ok?" Liam asks before they go their separate ways when Zayn reaches down to scratch at it like he's been doing on and off ever since they left the park's boundaries.

"Yeah, yeah," Zayn dismisses quickly. "I think it's just the dry weather."

Watching the other stand up and shake out his leg, Liam considers the statement. "At least there weren't any thunderstorms. Did you hear about that the other day?"

Zayn's eyes look away, behind Liam at the train platform there. "Yeah, weird."

Given how much of a freak occurrence the storm had been, Liam expected more of a reaction than that, but he's not going to make something out of nothing, so he simply takes a deep breath and smiles. "Anyway, I better get going so I don't miss my train. I had a nice time, even if you did almost get into a brawl with the owner of a chihuahua."

Zayn's eyes snap back to Liam's, "He deserved it. If you act like an ingrade, you should be treated like one."

Again, Zayn leans down to scratch his shin, annoyance written all over his face, but this time, as he comes up, Liam meets him halfway, pulling him close for a slow kiss.

"Don't think about it too much," he advises softly after.

With his lips curled up at their edges, Zayn just barely shakes his head, "The only thing I'm only going to be thinking about is that."

"Good." Once he's proud of he's clearly wiggled his way into the man's consciousness, Liam turns and walks off. He gets a few meters when he hears Zayn's voice call out to him.

"Text me when you get home so I know you got there safe!" When Liam turns around, he sees that Zayn's yet to move an inch from where he left him. "London's a breeding ground for crazies on a Saturday night."

Liam doesn't even note the wide smile on his face until it starts to fade at the train zooming in front of him. There's absolutely nothing his two hands can't handle on their own, but in the moment, he pretends like there is, and allows himself to feel the heartfelt declaration of worry for all that it's worth.

He nods as the doors to the compartment open, and lets out a strong, "I will, I promise" right before the hoards of people come rushing out and swallow Zayn away with them.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Relationships have never been a top priority in Zayn's life. Not when he was a teenager just starting to discover his sexuality, and not when he'd come to terms with it, free to do as he pleased, away from home at university. No matter if moving to London gave him access to an international dating pool as deep as one could be, Zayn didn't see the hype in taking a dip. Sleeping with people for satisfaction and the sheer excitement of what _good_ sex entailed, that's a different story. But having a steady partner? Needing to court them over an undisclosed amount of time? It always seemed boring; he could do without. A few people have been lucky enough to stick around for an amount of time worth noting, but only because they were the ones to do all the work. Zayn was simply there for the ride until the other person came to the realization that, while he did love them, if they were to stop putting in the effort, he wouldn't be there to pick up the slack. He's not entirely certain why relationships never entice him, although if he asked Harry, he'd probably get a well-thought out answer derived from Zayn's graveyard of traumatic experiences. All he knows for sure, is that holding as much indifference as he does towards being labeled as a boyfriend, plus not being the easiest of personalities to get along with even if the other person _is_ willing to carry all the weight, eliminates the possibility of a marriage founded on true love. It's ironic considering if he were back home in Pakistan, he'd most definitely be getting set up with his wife around now, if he hadn't already. It's a thought that comes to mind every once and a while - what would happen if he were to have an arranged marriage? One here, in England.

He'd walk into the closest mosque, regardless of the fact that he's no longer religious, and ask the imam that since he has no birth mother in this country to find him a wife, could he? Of course he'd leave out the part about how his eyes lingered on any man who walked by with a lean build, or that he can sometimes let his moments of resentful anger turn fatal when the feeling of fun's just not enough. But those small quirks aside, he's the perfect catch. He'd show up with a sizeable dowry and turn on his charm for those he found attractive in the group chosen for him until one gave in, not because she was in love with who he was (although maybe his looks and wit were up to her standards), but because his well-respected career and native language would please her parents and finally put an end to their insufferable nagging. They'd get married, have kids, grow old together, and somewhere in between, genuinely grow to love one another. But not in any way other than what comes with caring about the person you go to bed to every night or who parents your children. Early on, she'd learn that the only proper way to deal with Zayn's random disappearances is to turn a blind eye to them. But that would be alright because he did the same anytime he saw a large transaction on their shared credit card; whatever made her happy.

The older he gets, the more Zayn's starting to overlook the appeal of life like that, and instead, recognize it as possibly the only option he has to avoid dying alone; people shouldn't mistaken his asperity towards his select victims as an indication that he doesn't want a family.

Which is why with Liam, he's actually making an effort. As much as he likes to glare at Louis anytime the man brings up the fact that Liam was technically all _his_ doing, Zayn can't deny that without actively seeking someone on his own, this is the closest thing he's ever going to get to an actual potential falling straight into his lap.

They've only known each other for three weeks, the standard amount of time for the man or woman Zayn's dating to recognize that he was either a) not worth the trouble or b) an exciting project. Yet Liam hasn't shown any signs of coming to a conclusion on which road he wants to take, and Zayn's doing everything in his power (or at least, within a realistic scope for who he is) to keep it that way.

Since their second date, he hasn't let a day go by where they don't speak. If Liam isn't up at the crack of dawn, sending Zayn some positive affirmation that he'll make it through his eight hour shift from hell, then Zayn's the one messaging him. They're not lengthy texts, just small 'thought of you when I got a croissant before I got in' or 'hope you got a good night's sleep, I'm exhausted' followed by a bunch of sleeping emojis because he's learned that Liam loves those things. But for Zayn, even that's a sign that he's going to much greater lengths than he normally ever would. It's a two way street for the first time in a long time, and while they make sure to acknowledge that they're on each other's minds often, Zayn's more than appreciative of how Liam knows how to leave it at that; they've each got a life to live, they don't have the time (and Zayn the patience) to fawn over one another all day long. It's unnecessary, frivolous, and in Zayn's mind, downright diluting. He enjoys getting to know who Liam is in person, where he can see the expressions that go along with his stories, and the energy that he brings to the table.

That easy-going spirit is the exact reason Zayn offers to take them to a restaurant that he considers on par with food back home. Sure, he nearly ditches Liam at the station they meet at before walking over together when the man asks what the difference is between Indian and Pakistani foods, but he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Liam's inquisitive nature is the reason he thought to bring him there. He wants to show him the tiniest of glimpses into who he is, regardless of whether or not that might go against his cardinal rule about his upbringing being off limits. With his level-headed pacing and nonexistent attachment issues, Liam's earned the smile that comes from hearing that Zayn's beloved grandfather was a chef. It's all he gets, besides an extremely brief story about how weirded out nine year old Zayn was when he saw that Westerners used forks to eat rice and not spoons. From that moment on, he lets Liam do the talking, nodding when he senses that the younger male might be unsure of whether or not it's ok to continue on with the story he's started about when he was a child and had an irrational fear of spoons. Because, if Zayn prohibited talking about his past, does that mean Liam shouldn't talk about his own?

But controlling what people talk about, that's irrational, and Zayn's come to realize that. Usually if the topic of family or childhood surfaced in a required conversation, Zayn would tolerate as much as he could with tight lips. If it got to be too much, he'd leave abruptly or obnoxiously change the subject in the middle of someone's retelling of their mother's home remedy for curing a cold. With Liam, he can't bring himself to do either. If he wants this to turn into something, he has no choice but to stomach whatever it is that Liam tosses at him. Like hearing about how his mother was - and still is - the main breadwinner for the Payne household, taking up as many waitressing jobs as her feet could handle in order to make ends meet since his father permanently hurt his left leg on a night out with Sourz early on in their relationship. An odd tinge of guilt comes over Zayn when he holds himself back from laughing after Liam repeats the ongoing family joke about how everyone - his two older sisters, his grandparents, even his mum - scolds his father, saying, "you couldn't wait until you were on the clock to get hurt? Then at least we'd get benefit payouts". But Liam's got that contagious smile on his lips that Zayn doesn't think he'll ever tire of seeing, so he lets out the chuckles after all.

Before they go to this cocktail bar that employs special mixologists, Liam shares his love for the almond ice cream, kulfa, that Zayn ordered for them. "It's way denser than regular ice cream, it's ace!" As they take the long route to drinks, away from the nearby football field so they don't have a repeat of last week when Zeus sensed the open area and got restless wanting to go for a run, Zayn promises that if they're still hanging out, he'll bring Liam back in the summer so he can experience the cold dessert in its prime.

For a Friday night, the bar's not as crowded as Zayn would've thought it to be, but he's still not too fond of the crowd: pretentious, well-dressed braggarts whose greatest instances of pain were derived from breakups. Their carefree smiles and laughter make Zayn want to toss whatever spicy drink Liam just ordered the both of them by way of closing his eyes and pointing at the menu, in their faces. If he had to walk around with so much unjust pain all the time, then so should they.

But Liam's there. Moving his hips with the slow jazz music playing somewhere in the room, drumming his fingers along his glass. Telling him about how much he hates people who take calls in the Tube and the conversation he had to endure on the way from the centre to the restaurant. He's quite gesticulative when he wants to be Zayn's finding out, bringing his hand up to his ear, pinky and thumb standing out to mimic a phone so as to give an authentic rendition of the experience. Once upon a time, Zayn was that excited about life, about small things that would disrupt his everyday routine and give him something to smile about. Being able to feel that same liveliness radiate off Liam and onto himself, makes the man ten times more attractive than his black henley and long chestnut peacoat already did.

He speaks to Zayn like he's known him forever, never embarrassed to toss out an unconventional thought, like how he's always wondered just how badly waxing your legs hurt. It's not something that Zayn's ever stopped and considered, but as they talk it out (the pain and how the woman in the red bodycon dress who started this whole thing probably assumes they're strategizing how to get her to go home with them given how much they're staring) he realizes how comfortable he feels talking freely to Liam, how he's not worried about being judged. Though he does question whether or not he's done something in specific to make Liam feel like he can trust Zayn with such an open invitation inside his head, or if Liam's just this way with everyone.

An hour later, after Zayn orders them both a cocktail inspired by Ernest Hemingway made up of Bicardi, dark creme de cacao, citrus, and sugar, titled 'The Never Ending Story', he learns that Liam's a third of the way through _The Alchemist._ "I bought it a few days after you mentioned it, but I want to take my time so we can talk about it properly. I can tell there's a lot of things I'm missing even going _this_ slow, so give me another couple weeks." Zayn gives him all of five seconds before he pulls him in by his coat and kisses him right there on the spot. For all he knows, the public display of affection is the reason behind Liam's schedule clearing up more time for reading, because by the time they meet the following Wednesday, he's finished.

"I'm ready to discuss," Liam says, notes app illuminating his phone as soon as they've put in their orders at a ramen place near Zayn's office - Liam's choice, since it's his day off and he didn't want Zayn to have to trudge around London after a long day with his favourite people.

If Zayn were to be perfectly honest, he hasn't picked the book off his shelf in a while, but it's still a standout in his collection, so he remembers enough to be able to have a conversation about it. Although, he's not sure if it helps or hurts that Liam's not terribly book smart because he's really got to draw on his memory hard in order to fill in the blanks that the other needs assistance with. But even so, the points that Liam do make are so pure, so naive and unlike anything Zayn's used to hearing from the literature people he's surrounded himself with since secondary school, that in an odd way, they bring an element of depth to Liam's thought process. He probably thinks that he's doing a great job rambling about why palm trees weren't mentioned in the desert scenes. But that's exactly why Zayn doesn't stop to tell Liam that what he's saying is utter rubbish because it's clear that Liam's given this serious thought; he's not just saying it to impress Zayn (however, it's very much a possibility that he's hoping for a nod of recognition somewhere in all this), he actually believes in what he's saying.

To his surprise - and great delight - Liam doesn't tire talking about fictional worlds for the rest of the meal, nor does he do anything other than act sincerely excited to go to a bookstore that Zayn loves afterwards. In fact, Liam's zealous energy only heightens at getting to hear Zayn openly speak about his passion in life in between aisles of paperbacks. How he tolerates his crammed cubicle, and always being on his last nerve strictly because he loves his job. Or that he still finds himself in awe at how each new author he comes across has somehow managed to manipulate the English language into a film on paper.

"Think of it Liam," he says wistfully. "The endless possibilities of it all, and like, the fact that one day, someone was staring at a blank page and then all of a sudden, they created this whole _world_. Isn't that wild?"

"Yeah, it is. I've never thought about it before, but all of this came from inside someone's mind."

Zayn watches as Liam takes his hand that isn't being held, and runs it along the spines of the books they're slowly passing; he seers the image into his memory like he's storing away an old vintage polaroid.

He may work with young adult books in specific, but Zayn doesn't limit them to just that section. He drags Liam around to every genre of fiction, pointing out the books that have stuck with him throughout the years and scanning barcodes of those that he wants to read for his reading app to take note. Every once and awhile, in between shelves, Zayn tugs the hand he's holding of Liam's and boxes the male into the wooden units to steal a kiss, too caught up in the bliss of having a handsome man at his side, roaming his version of a sanctuary to do anything other than act in the moment. He doesn't even care if Liam outrightly admits to being the type who judges a book by its cover, or that during one of the instances, a worker stumbles upon them. Their disapproving stare can be felt a mile away, but little do they know, Zayn really doesn't give a fuck about anything anyone says, and tells them to "get lost".

On the bus ride home, Liam's peppery scented cologne still fresh in his senses from their parting kiss, Zayn fantasizes about what life might feel like if every night could be like this. A lot less treacherous, that much he can be sure of. When he finds himself in Cheshire two days later, staring up at the ceiling of his first British home, it's the thought of Liam's careful fingertips stroking leather bindings that get him through the night. Through the entire weekend, really.

It's not often that he gets the chance to come back to the small village he grew to love from the age of nine to eighteen. The two story house sits right on the north edge of town, neighbors to each side of it, but with a considerable amount of space in between their properties, enough for him and Harry to run around when they were younger and not disturb the elderly couple in the cottage style home to their right who hated any noises louder than a car starting.

Growing up in the thick of a city as large as Quetta, adjustment to life in a slow, picturesque town was a lot on Zayn. It took him just as long to get used to the silent nights as it did the notion that his room was just that - his. There was no second mattress crammed in the corner, only ample space for Zayn to walk around or put the countless toys he was given during his first few years as a part of the home.

To most, the lifestyle upgrade would be the equivalent of winning the lottery, a second chance at starting over in a way that never seemed achievable in their wildest dreams, but to Zayn, the stark contrast between worlds only worsened his homesickness. With every new piece of clothing he was bought, he thought of the traditional tunics that he was used to wearing, but couldn't anymore in fear of sticking out more than he already did in a town where people of colour hardly existed; that's on top of feeling as though the only way to stop dwelling about the past was to stop interacting with it. Each time he'd get driven to school, guilt would overcome him. He could walk, there wasn't any need to have a car take him the one and a half kilometer distance. Over time, he learned to silence the discomfort that came with such favours or purchases. It was the affection and devotion to cautious attention from his new caregivers that he'd struggled to come to terms with.

From the time Zayn stepped foot in their house, Harry's mother, Anne, and stepfather, Robin, did everything in their power to ensure that the terrified boy knew he could count on them for safety. While they were as privileged as they come, in all aspects - a lineage of financial stability, university degrees, holidays since birth - Zayn realized that the reason he was placed with a family like that and not one more aligned to his culture or religion is because of Anne's career as a trauma therapist.

In hindsight, he wishes he was a lot more grateful for the watchful way she and her husband chose to show their love for him in the beginning. It wasn't until he matured and his situation properly sunk in as something permanent that the acknowledgement they deserved began to flow easily from Zayn, but it still took those first two years for the line between blood family and foster to begin to blur.

Zayn will never forget when it first started to show - after he and Harry had come home from their first day of secondary school, starving.

They'd just thrown their bags on the dining room table, about ready to raid the fridge when an idea popped into Zayn's head. "Do you think Mum will make us pancakes? I feel like pancakes."

Harry had hardly blinked, and maybe Zayn should've taken note of that at the time, but he was too preoccupied evaluating how the parental label sounded coming out of his mouth. Not _your_ mum or Mrs. Twist (Mrs. Styles when Zayn really wasn't thinking and forgot Harry's surname is different from his mother's after she got remarried), just plain Mum, possessive.

"If you asked, I bet she would," Harry replied from inside the freezer.

"Me too."

Zayn stared at the woman in the kitchen's opening, broken out of his thoughts by her voice. She held a small smile that told him she heard the slip, but that was all. It was as though they had a silent conversation about it with their eyes for all of a few seconds before they were moving past it. And honestly, Zayn had never loved the woman more for it.

There was no turning back after that. Not that Zayn ever wanted to. Treating his household like real family made healing possible, but he couldn't help feeling guilty saying Mum or Dad occasionally. As if using the term meant he was discounting his birth parents altogether. But each time he started to feel the self-loathing start to creep in, he'd remind himself that the English terms didn't hold nearly the same sentimental meaning as the Urdu Ammi and Baba; no one would ever replace them, these people just happened to treat him like they could if he ever asked them to.

Even so, specific holiday's never got easier. If he didn't come up for Mother's Day, he'd kick himself. Yet every time he did, he had to contain his heart from wavering away to the Mother he had thousands of miles away; it's disrespectful to the one in front of him. The one who pulls Zayn into the tightest hug possible when she unwraps a collection of short stories he thought she'd love. Because how dare he not give this woman the attention she deserves? Ignore all the holidays and birthdays _he_ unwrapped gifts from _her_? And not just one or two, but an ungodly amount per occasion, far more than a normal foster child might receive from their temporary caregiver. She and her husband went above and beyond their requirements, the least he can do is keep his thoughts to himself and show her how much he absolutely adores her on this day more than any other.

For the three days they're there, each morning and afternoon, he and Harry go out for a walk in the endless meadows on the outskirts of town. He doesn't feel bad leaving the woman who they've traveled here for, for an hour or two, both men have come to a conclusion that she's thrilled just knowing that her two boys are close by and not hours away in "the big time" a.k.a. London. They eat a huge breakfast, then walk it off, talking about the things they used to get up to when they were younger and how they both miss the serenity of it. When they do it all again in the afternoon, their lunch settling, Zayn lets Zeus free to run around, Hera too if they're far out enough that no one will be able to see a full-size tiger pouncing in the grass; he and Harry will lay, spread out in a pasture that goes as far as the eye can see while the two have their fun.

On Sunday, the day that really matters, they time their walk so that as soon as they return, the roast their father's put in will be done. It's the longest they've roamed all weekend, mostly because Harry's asked about Liam and Zayn finds that subject a difficult one to find an end to. That, and apart from their mum, Harry's the single-best person to talk to. Perhaps that's to blame on him following in his mother's footsteps becoming a therapist, something he told Zayn he wasn't incredibly keen on doing until he realized how much of an impact his mum's approach to raising a troubled immigrant had on Zayn's life, and therefore Harry's too.

The confession came in their final year of university, said in an attempt to pull Zayn out of a spiral he'd made for himself after being assigned an impossible editing exercise and convince him that yes, he did choose the right career path.

"You just have to remind yourself of why you chose it in the first place," Harry had told him. "I have to do it all the time when I read a particularly disturbing case study. I want to help kids like Mum helped you, but sometimes I get frustrated with it and I have to remind myself that future me will be happy that they can do what they're doing because I pushed through. You just gotta push through."

Ironically, Harry's always been much better with words than Zayn. Giving out world class advice like that and playing the older brother part well even if he's technically a month younger than Zayn. He could've let Zayn sink and drown on his first day of school, threw him to the sharks because he wasn't obligated to be anything other than cordial to him due to their living arrangement, but he didn't. He made sure to keep an eye on him from the moment they got out of the car, to the second they got back in seven hours later. And because of that resonance with safety that Harry created for himself, Zayn's refused to stray far from his side.

Going into the home, he knew the adults were aware of what happened for him to have landed on their door, but Harry asked so many questions about what Pakistan was like in the first few weeks, that Zayn took that as a sign he knew nothing. Only a month went by before he ended up telling Harry his whole story, gruesome details and all. Since Harry had heard Zayn cry to both adults in the house more times than he'd probably ever admit to, breaking down when one would take the time to talk to him about what was going on in his head or the nightmares that he constantly woke up from, Zayn knew he wouldn't say anything to the kids in their class. But more than anything, Zayn told him because he was his only friend, and letting your best friend in on your secrets is just what you do.

"If I'm going to be living with you for a really long time, and you're sort of my brother now, then you deserve to know."

Telling Harry his story so early on in their relationship made things a lot easier when Zayn got over the initial shock of his adjustment period and started acting out. He didn't do much at a young age, just pulled violent pranks on those who made fun of his accent or his lack of knowledge about Western customs, but he felt an odd bit of comfort knowing Harry understood that it was more than just getting revenge on bullies, it was from bottled up anger at what turns his life had taken. The same can be said for when Zayn followed Harry to Bristol for uni and his clever pranks turned into nightly petty crimes. It's then that the younger male began simultaneously looking out for Zayn's mental state since their mum no longer could, and silently accepting the fact that Zayn just needed to feel something other than emptiness all the time. It's when they moved to London and he found out he had superpowers, ones that could enhance his nights of torment ten fold, that Harry finally said something. "I'm not an idiot." "I know you're not." "Then don't treat me like one. I know you're out there causing real harm. And I know you've kept this from me because you don't want me to get involved or think badly of you, but we've never kept anything from one another, so don't start now." The rest of the night was spent with Zayn going over which tattoos he's played around with and which he hadn't mastered yet, strategically ending with the heart on his right hip.

"This one I'm not 100% sure about, but I think I've got an idea," he said, pointing to the solid black shape. "It heats up. Or, it has a couple times. And each time, it hasn't been because of me. Remember when you broke your arm last week?"

They both looked down at Harry's black cast. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right," Zayn chuckled, "well, it got really hot around the time when that biker hit you. And when Mum called to check in and told us one of her patients overdosed?" Harry nodded. "I know you have to make sure you distance yourself from your patients or whatever, but she was really upset about it. You remember?"

"Yeah, she said she'd been crying all night."

"And Louis' burn that he got last month from the hob?" Zayn only continued when Harry acknowledged the memory. "I think it heats up when someone's in pain, but, like, only the people I care about. I cut a man's arm off a couple days ago and I-"

Harry didn't want to hear anymore after that, he got the message. Instead, he teased Zayn about having a romantic tattoo that had the capacity to be triggered by the love Zayn had for _his_ boyfriend. How could he not have any when Louis was just as much of a part of Harry's shadow as Zayn was?

As a person who played a significantly large part in Zayn's scheming, Louis was eventually let in on Zayn's past too. He took it well, could understand the motives behind it all, but Zayn knew he still didn't find his bond with Harry to be normal. "He's your family Harry. You need to teach him how to separate from you. You can be his person to lean on, but he's way too co-dependent." Zayn wasn't meant to hear the kitchen conversation, clearly thought to still be asleep in his room and not up against his door, about to go to the toilet, but it stuck with him through the years. And even though he won't say it out loud - to them, to his mum, to anyone - Zayn knows it to be true. He can't live without Harry.

"This looks like a good place for a session," Zayn says as they finally come up on an overgrown grassy meadow.

As Harry evaluates the ground for any wet patches, he sighs, "I'm not your therapist."

"Yes, you are," Zayn argues, throwing himself on the ground carelessly. He doesn't even look around for his animals before he does so, he knows they'd never get lost or disobey him if he called. "I've been venting to you going on eighteen years. I just haven't ever paid you because I'm your one pro-bono case."

"Therapists can't treat their family or anyone they have a vested interest in," Harry replies in a bored tone, as if he's gone over this with Zayn a million and one times. Probably because he has.

"And yet, I'm ready to talk."

A long sigh comes from Zayn's side, a signal that his stubbornness has come out victorious as always.

"I'm asking as your brother," Harry starts, his slight resentment dissipating quickly, "how are you doing? There have been more crimes than usual showing up in the news..."

"I really like Liam, yeah?"

"I thought we were done with him," Harry says amusedly, sounding a lot more like a brother than Zayn was hoping for.

"Will you let me finish?" He swiftly elbows the man before continuing. "I like him, and he saves me from myself a lot of the time before I can do something in the moment like I usually do on my own, but that's only one night a week. He's on my mind a lot, yeah, but no person I end up with is going to be with me every hour of the day to keep me in check. You and I are as close as they come and even then, I still managed to pull off that museum heist last week."

Harry turns his head, squinting from the sun, "That was you?"

"I helped with the warding off of the police," Zayn replies, glad that Harry knows better than to ask for clarification as to what that entailed. "It was warranted. Paintings worth millions are such a slap in the face to the people who will never even have access to opportunities that could get them honest jobs that pay that much, nevermind actually landing the positions and getting paid fairly. I fucking hate the unfairness of the world."

"I know you do," Harry mutters, closing his eyes and going back to sunbathing before the clouds steal the sun's rays. "But that's just a part of life. You'd have nothing to work for if this was a communist planet." He pauses. Knowing that it'll award him a worthwhile response, Zayn lets him swim in his thoughts. "I hate that you're in so much pain all the time, and I know you know I feel that way. I hate that you feel like you have no control over the anger that consumes you even more, but it's not my place to slap you on the wrist every time you do something wrong. You've got to live with your own consequences and learn how detrimental you are to yourself, forget who you hurt. I care about those in your path, don't get me wrong, but if you focused on yourself, then there wouldn't be anyone to sympathize for. It's been two years with your powers and in my opinion, they've only made you worse. I think you should really consider going to a PTSD specialist."

"I do."

"Not me," Harry grumbles.

"Well, I used-"

"Your years with Mum don't count either. She wasn't treating you, she was just looking out for you with a specific skill set." Zayn bites his tongue. "You said it yourself, you want things with Liam to work out. I think having him around would make going to therapy a lot easier. You'd have something, or some _one_ rather, to help you see the light at the end of the tunnel more clearly."

Another brief stint of silence takes over. Zayn's sure he already knows this, but Harry should look at Zayn's willingness to talk to him as a victory in itself. There's no way he's going to subject himself to speaking on his feelings with a stranger once a week, men don't do that.

"Life's enraging with or without Liam, but at least if I have him, I won't have to go at it alone."

Surprisingly, Harry doesn't argue with him, simply lets Zayn's words do the speaking for him and impart a sense of shame at taking things into his own hands when it's clear Zayn's stubbornness hasn't ever been his friend.

But then, Zayn's not sure he wants to change, his nights of feeling guilty have long passed. If the moment they get back into London that night, he changes into his suit and helps rob a bank, taking out each policeman one by one with the revolver inked on his left hip, then it's because it's something he believes in; capitalist pigs don't deserve to thrive on money they've inherited from exploiting workers in third world countries.

And if when he slides into bed that night, he gets the largest smile from Liam texting him that he missed him over the weekend, then it's because love's something he believes in too; as a person with a kill count over one hundred, it's what he deserves.

\--------------

It's a rare occurrence for Zayn to exercise his cooking skills apart from boiling water and throwing in a handful of pasta, but it does happen. When he dusts off his apron, it's usually to put together the few childhood recipes he remembers in an effort to keep them alive and battle homesickness. The delectable vegetable biryani in the Tupperware he's holding is proof that he's still got it. Hopefully his date will think the same.

"Hi!"

Liam's smile is blinding, as it is any time he greets Zayn, though his outfit isn't nearly as pristine. Splatters of white decorate the steel gray t-shirt. There's one large smear near his shoulder, while the other's covered with a red checkered dish towel; Zayn's thick white button down tucked into his black tapered jeans looks a joke in comparison.

"Ooo, is that the rice?"

They both look down at the glass container, Zayn raising it up so they can look inside once he's stepped forward into Liam's building. "Yeah, vegetable biryani. I made it last night so I could come straight here after work. But trust me, it tastes even better the next day."

"You told me you were just bringing rice," Liam says excitedly, pointing to the stairs and leading the way up. "I didn't know I was going to get the fancy stuff. Is it the same as what you'd eat back home?"

To avoid Zayn's mood going sour this early in the night, he replies with a short, "yeah", trudging up the two flights of stairs and catching his breath once they've made it to flat 208.

The second the door's opened, a wave of warmth crashes over Zayn, in the temperature that instantly brings colour back to his face, and in the aroma of chicken mixed with a myriad of other flavourful scents.

Liam takes his dish, leaving Zayn to observe his surroundings and set his satchel on one of the chairs tucked in to the wooden table that's already got two place settings made up elegantly.

"I think you should know by now that you don't have to impress me," he teases, walking over to the wide kitchen counter and sneaking a peek at what's cooking. "The fact that you wanted to cook me a meal is enough to win me over."

"It's our fifth date," Liam reminds him, "I still very much need to keep you enticed. That requires effort."

"Nonsense." A small smirk comes over Zayn's lips when he feels Liam's body stiffen in response to a chin being rested on his right shoulder, the tension melting away the longer Zayn stays put. "You've always got my attention."

The wooden spoon that Liam's using to stir a pot of white sauce stops its movements when Zayn places a chaste kiss to the male's neck. "Can I have a taste?" He asks once he repositions himself at Liam's side, not waiting for an answer, simply dipping his finger into the sauce and bringing it up to his mouth. It's cheesy, not at all like the alfredo taste he was expecting.

"It's béchamel," Liam says, blowing on the wooden spoon before having a little taste test of his own.

"Becha what?"

"Béchamel." The stove gets turned off, Zayn moving out of the way so Liam can put his rice in the microwave. "It's a French white sauce."

"And you're over here calling my biryani fancy," Zayn scoffs, unbuttoning his sleeve cuffs and rolling them up to his elbows. "Are you going to pull a creme brûlée out from the oven next?"

Liam laughs softly, "No, I've got the chicken and roasted vegetables staying warm in there. For pudding, there's chocolate mousse."

When the fridge door gets opened, and the bowl of dark brown dessert is revealed, Zayn nearly kisses him again out of reverence. "How long have you been cooking?"

"It was my day off, I don't mind."

Answering by not answering tells Zayn all he needs to hear, and is why when they're sitting down to eat, he makes sure that Liam looks him in the eye so the "thank you" that he gives him doesn't get overlooked as a formality being had; Zayn truly meant it. Just like he means it when he says that it felt odd to not see him on the weekend, and again when he apologizes for not coming Monday or Tuesday night even though he wanted to.

"Work has been hectic with summer release deadlines. It'll get better next month, I swear."

He's quick to jump over how his Mother's Day had been, only really talking about how great it was to have taken Friday off and make a real occasion of it. You don't need to have advanced perception like Liam to be able to tell he isn't willing to say anything more than that. But Liam's Liam, so he takes control of the conversation when Zayn starts to lose energy, babbling on about how pleased his mum was that he took her out to eat at a nice restaurant where she was the one doing the dining and complimenting Zayn's contribution to the meal every time he's about to take a bite.

"You can keep the rest," Zayn says when they're cleaning up the aftermath and Liam eyes the leftover rice. "I always make it in huge batches. We've still got some at my place."

"Yeah?" Even though he's trying to be polite, Liam forgoes waiting for an answer and places the rice in the fridge with the other dishes. "It was amazing, I could probably eat it everyday and not tire of it."

Chuckling, Zayn sets the last clean dish on the rack and then leans against the sink. "Good luck making that last for another sixty years."

"I mean it," Liam says, desperate for the other to believe him, the bowl of mousse in his hand. "I loved it way more than any other biryani I've had at a restaurant."

"What'd I say about not needing to convince me that you're worth my time?" Like the menace he is, Zayn swipes his finger into the dessert's stiff peaks. "Keep talking and it's gonna backfire on you."

Eyes narrowed, Liam pushes the older male's chest lightly. "Go put the TV on before I ban you from the kitchen."

Quite a few sarcastic remarks come to Zayn's mind, but he follows orders and retreats to the other side of the flat to relax. When he flips the flatscreen on, the evening news is playing. It's sufficient enough for Zayn that he leaves it for the time being.

He's unfastening the button on his shirt collar when he notices the clunky box underneath the television.

"I didn't know people still had analog radios," he thinks aloud, about ready to get up and check it out, but Liam's now at his side, handing him over a small bowl of sin.

"Oh, yeah." Liam's body practically falls onto the couch. "It was a joke gift from one of Niall's friends when we moved in."

Zayn thinks it odd, a gag in the form of something that looks relatively pricey, but he doesn't give it much thought other than that. "When'd you say he's coming back from the States?"

"Tomorrow. He only went for a few days this time."

There hasn't been a time when they've met up where Liam _hasn't_ brought up Niall. Thankfully mobiles exist, so he's been able to get a glimpse at what this bloke looks like, but Zayn can't help wondering what he's really like, not the portrayal Liam gives him.

"What do you think of that guy?"

At the sound of Liam's question, Zayn's brought out of his thoughts, blinking his vision back to clarity and focusing on the newscast that's displaying security camera footage of Sunday night's bank robbery. It alternates between showing bandits raiding the inside of the building, vaults, cash boxes, keys, and the streets outside. A camera on a nearby high-rise offers the perfect angle for Zayn to see himself, crouched behind the wall of a lower building's roof, tactically firing his revolver at the police as they arrive.

"This isn't the first time the masked figure has been connected with crime in the city," the announcer declares over the picture. "If you remember last month, several eyewitnesses claimed to have seen a man dressed in similar clothing - an all black tracksuit and ski mask - fleeing the scene where a woman was left dead after having her throat viciously pulled apart. Those who saw the man say that they were in too much shock to pull out their phones in time to catch the alleged murderer, who ended up growing wings to fly away from the scene. But over the past two years, there have been _many_ accounts of an 'angel' flying around the city at night that do have videos to back them up."

As one plays, Zayn takes his first spoonful of dessert, unable to fully enjoy its velvety smoothness because of the disquiet he feels at sitting so close to someone completely unaware of who they're in the presence of. Like the revolver he used to pick off the police one by one that weekend, or the tiger he ordered to claw the woman's larynx out a month ago, or the wings that lifted him off the ground whenever he so chose, aren't all tattooed on his body, within an arm's length of Liam right then.

"He's one of the few supervillains that we know of that has managed to evade being put in prison by Red Valor. Hopefully, it's only a matter of time before this winged mutant will join them. Next up, what you can do to make sure you're spending less time on your commute, and more in bed."

Without having to look, Zayn can feel Liam's eyes on him, waiting for an answer to his question.

"He's probably got his reasons," the older man says, quickly shoveling another spoonful of mousse into his mouth.

"For killing people?"

Turning to face Liam, it's no surprise to see that he's staggered at Zayn's nonchalant response. In an effort to seem normal without compromising his stance, he thinks up a more sympathetic answer.

"He doesn't kill _all_ of them."

Liam tilts his head in disapproval, "No, only the ones who deserve it, right?"

"Yeah." The leer that begins to form on Liam's face scares Zayn into another rephrasal. "I mean, maybe. If he was a serial killer, wouldn't he just rip everyone's throats out?"

Disturbed by the image, Liam diverts his scrutinizing gaze away from Zayn and down towards his half-eaten bowl of dessert. "All that monsters like him deserve is prison."

The interesting choice of word irritates Zayn's anger while also intriguing him. "Monsters? Would you call Red Valor a monster?"

"No," Liam's quick to say, his expression one of complete certitude, "he's completely different. He uses his superpowers for good. You know," he points his spoon at the television, even though it's on to a laundry advert, "to save the city from creatures like that."

"So now he's a creature?" It's impossible for Zayn to use anything other than a poisonous tone at the degrading term. He knows that no one's capable of understanding why he does what he does, but he'll be damned if he's going to let anyone label him like he's an unsophisticated animal, even if it is coming from the man he's trying to test out a relationship with. "Just because they've got different motives, doesn't mean that one can be called a saint and the other a _creature_. Neither of them are entirely human."

He can see it in Liam's heated stare, how he agrees with the point Zayn articulated, yet he won't dare verbally admit it.

"I don't want my kids to grow up in a world where it's a possibility that they can be killed on the bus ride to school," Liam replies stoically. "Society needs to have as little evil as possible living in it."

While it may not seem it, Zayn does consider himself to have morals. One of them includes never touching a hair on a child's head, they're far too innocent to know that their wrongdoings are that. Every negative element that's brought on them - poverty, abuse, neglect, famine, violent surroundings - isn't their fault, it's all circumstantial. The adults walking the Earth are responsible. _They're_ the ones who deserve what they have coming to them, ruining the lives of youth who have no say in elections or environmental decisions that end up warping their views and sending them down a path of destruction. Zayn knows that all too well, and to some extent, so does Liam.

But, he doesn't want to keep feeding this toxic train of thought, he's supposed to be making a worthwhile effort to get this man to want to be with him. He needs to change the subject before he breaks that promise to himself.

"So, you want kids?"

By the way Liam's cheeks heat up to a deep scarlet colour, it's clear Zayn's caught him off guard, with a taboo subject or perhaps just the switch in topics altogether. "I do," he utters shly. "I always have."

Zayn keeps his eyes locked on the man who's back to staring down at his bowl. "Which means if I don't, then I should pretty much pack up my things and kiss my Tupperware goodbye."

A hint of a smile forms at Zayn's humour, but Liam very obviously won't let himself feel the full emotion, too worried that what's been laid out before him is about to come true, whatever vision he's built up for the two of them a waste of his time. The bullets he's sweating are for nothing, Zayn's deadset on being called Dad (or Baba or Abbu or whatever language they so wish to use) one day, he just wants to see how long he can make Liam squirm.

"A family isn't something I ever questioned for my future." Before Liam looks up from his food, Zayn sees the way his shoulders loosen in relief. "But I'd want to adopt. I always thought that, even if I ended up with a woman. Who am I to bring more children into the world when there are already way too many out there, born into horrible conditions, needing a home? Especially the ones who aren't newborns. People who adopt always want the babies, no one ever takes the older kids."

For being so concerned not more than a minute ago, Liam's features are as soft as ever, his eyes searching Zayn's for something his words haven't provided. "You're really passionate about this," he gathers, tone inquisitive.

"I've seen too much to think any differently."

He stops there, hoping that's good enough for the younger male because he's not about to go into detail about growing up in a developing country plagued by war in his later years there, or the immense gratitude and love he has for a certain British family that did everything just short of adopting him. And yet, when he hears Liam's "yeah, so have I", Zayn almost reconsiders; it always slips his mind that he's not the only one with a less-than perfect upbringing between the two of them.

"You better not want any of that white picket fence shit though," Zayn warns, "because I'm not about that. I'm a city boy." He smirks proudly at the declaration. "Going out to the countryside's nice every now and again, but if I'm not getting woken up in the middle of the night by a rubbish truck, then I'm too far out."

Rather than laugh at the remark, Liam examines Zayn while savoring his final mouthful of chocolate. "I see through your bad boy filter," he dares, setting his empty bowl on the coffee table.

Zayn scorns in jest, "It's not a filter."

"No, you're right. Most of the time you're a bellend." Grinning at Zayn's laughter that overtakes the announcer on TV, Liam finishes off his thought while the other also discards his bowl, "But I think deep down, you've got a decent heart."

"You're wrong," Zayn objects, keeping up with his lighthearted approach to defiance. "It's a black hole."

"Is it?"

The blatant challenge that Zayn reads from Liam's face stirs something inside him. It's in the male's raised eyebrows and provocative glare in his eyes, that he's egging Zayn on in some way. Whatever for, Zayn doesn't care.

"Yeah," he asserts, making sure that his expression matches Liam's coy one as best as possible. "I'm bad to the bone. You know that."

Like Zayn's just fallen into his perfectly set trap, Liam juts his chin out tauntingly, "Prove it."

In a flash, Liam's body is pressed up against the arm of the couch behind him, his hips automatically twisting so his legs lift off the floor and spread across the cushions. No sounds of protest are made at the sudden switch in position forced by Zayn's sudden kiss, but because he's now hyper aware of Liam's figure, Zayn safeguards it, putting his hands on either side of Liam's head to keep his now hovering frame from crushing the one below it.

All Zayn can taste is chocolate, from his mouth or Liam's, he's not sure, but it's heavenly. The richness juxtaposed with the way the man's short mustache catches on Zayn's lips every time they part for a short breath before diving right back into each other is just the right concoction to get the hot embers in his chest to erupt into a wildfire. He knows himself, knows that in a matter of minutes, if they keep up with this feverish pace, the flames will swallow him whole. He'll lose sense of anything other than chasing the need that comes with the heat and the friction of a foreign body pressing into his own. But before he gets there, he wants to appreciate what's in front of him.

Somehow, Liam's hands have snaked in between them, his fingers working at undoing Zayn's twill shirt from the bottom up. He's steady with his movements, not fumbling in the least. If Zayn wasn't so preoccupied nipping his way down Liam's jaw and neck to prove his point of being made up of more bad than he is good, he'd admire the stability.

This close up, he can smell the man's cologne, no longer hidden by the scent of food that transferred onto his clothing from being in front of a pan all evening. The aroma's intoxicating, the rest of Zayn's senses heightening by virtue of his smell being sharpened. He's even more in tune with the way Liam's rough fingertips are moving from the final button to the indents where Zayn's ribs meet his abs, there because his appetite's less than average, not because he's done as many crunches as he's sure the man underneath him has done to tone up.

The touch is just enough to have Zayn sink his teeth into the top of Liam's left shoulder that he's just uncovered, using his upper body strength to hold himself up by only his left arm so his right could peel back the collar of the other's t-shirt. Instead of hissing at the bite like Zayn's used to hearing as a reaction, Liam turns his head right into Zayn's ear, mewling as both his hands grip the skin they were tracing over just moments before. The warmth of Liam's breath against the shell of his ear is enough to set Zayn ablaze, forget the twinge of possessiveness that comes over him at the sound that accompanied it. He needs more.

As he sits up, Zayn brings Liam with him, looping his right arm around the man's torso to help get them both chest to chest. He's about to go back to a chocolate paradise when Liam's hands start to travel up to Zayn's shoulders, pushing his open shirt halfway off them.

"You've got even more," Liam whispers, like he's just uncovered some sort of treasure, eyes wide as they feast on the bars of gold and jewels.

Rather than look down at where Liam's staring at his extensive collection of ink that litters his pectorals, collarbones, upper abdominal, even his lower neck that's been on display for Liam before, but never to the extent where the younger man could see its bottom, Zayn watches Liam's pupils follow where his fingers are tracing. Over the huge set of angel wings that extend over his entire chest, the same ones that he shifts to his back and uses to fly through the night. Around the futuristic red wolf that sits in the middle of them, down to the matching red heart chakra and intricate mandala pattern that extends from the bottom of the wings to below his nipples. Liam's left hand takes its time running over the arabic scripture of the tattoo that started it all; Zayn doesn't even care to tell him that Arabic's read and written right to left, he's outlining the name backwards. Next to where Saanp's wrapped around Zayn's right shoulder, Liam's fingers locate a skull and crossbones; on the opposite collarbone edge there's another smoking, wearing a top hat with devil horns coming out of it.

"What was it you said about me not being bad to the bone?"

Liam's eyes finally find Zayn's once again, and only partially do they hold any forfeiture. He doesn't respond, just holds Zayn's stare as he finally pushes the work shirt off Zayn's shoulders and away from his body.

In the background, the TV's still playing, but Zayn's tuned it out completely; to his ears, it's only a low buzz. He wants more heat, the literal kind that he can get from Liam's skin against his, not the fever that his psyche always creates, so he does what he needs and rids Liam of his stained t-shirt. The tattoos on Zayn's skin have eliminated his ability to grow barely any hair on his chest, but Liam's got a healthy amount, and when it rubs up against the darkened wings as their lips reconnect, Zayn's warm.

He feels Liam start to lean forward and as he does, the arm that Zayn's still got wrapped around his waist, brings the man down with him, their bodies never once losing contact. Even as Liam's lips move from Zayn's, down to where his tattoos are now open and accessible, his tongue tasting select patches of skin before he kisses them, Zayn keeps his arm where it is; he gives Liam full reign to lead, but only if they remain attached.

"You're strong."

Liam's mumble gets lost with the noise of the television, picked up by his subconscious, yet not fully processed. There's a quickly approaching haze that he's currently getting lost in, his arm caging Liam in, while his left hand begins to wander from where it was gripping the man's hip to under the waistband of his grey jeans.

With his eyes closed, Zayn can sense Liam's every move, including the way his breathing starts to pick up, the short exhales hitting Zayn's neck with such sensitivity that he can't help but pull Liam closer. His hips rut up simultaneously, eliciting a low moan of his name. The tightness in Liam's voice puts a spike in Zayn's adrenaline, forcing him to mimic the motion while firmly squeezing the male's ass that he's been admiring. But instead of hearing his name, he hears a tense, "let's go to my room."

The words somehow register to Zayn, both his hands dropping to his sides in order for Liam to lead the way, even if that means surrendering such a beautiful view. Then again, the view of Liam's chiseled physique from below isn't too bad of a swap.

Unlike Zayn's, Liam's abs push out from his skin with a definition that only dedication and commitment can make. Along his right collar sits a faint set of teeth marks (which Zayn's surprised turned out so light; he'll have to really do his worst later on to make sure it lasts), and near his navel, a dark line that looks to be some sort of scar. His lips are pinker than normal, just like the parts of his cheeks that are visible above his dusty beard. He's got his hand out for Zayn to take, what were once hooded, but are now curious eyes, staring down at Zayn's rising and falling chest; there's no way Liam understands just how gorgeous he really is.

It's part of the reason they don't make it all the way into the male's bedroom without Zayn being a nuisance, pressing Liam's body up flush with the wall and sucking on his lower lip to make it puffier than it already is. But Liam's still able to see straight and tugs them through the door on the left at the end of the hallway. From there, it's a blur of socks and trousers being ripped off, no mind being paid to the open door, Zayn just wants to get his hands back on the silky briefs that he'd been pleasantly surprised to find hiding underneath the trousers that are now discarded somewhere on the tan carpet.

Sitting on the bed, he goes to graze his hands up Liam's thighs and over the material, but he's lost the other's attention to turning on the short side table lamp. As soon as the bed's illuminated by more than the light coming in from the window to its right, he takes what he wants, yanking Liam down by his upper thigh so that he's back on top of him like before.

Now he can feel, appreciate, _claim_ the muscles beneath his touch. He can tell Liam wants to lay all the way on the bed, so Zayn obliges, scooting up so the other can stretch out above him. Along with his lips discovering the pressure that Liam loves, he explores his protruding shoulder blades, letting his blunt nails scratch down them to the dip in his spine.

He needs more, always does. So he curves his right arm around Liam's slim torso in order to lock them together and make it easier to keep up with the addicting sensation the weight of the younger man provides.

When Liam's lips leave his, Zayn doesn't think of it as anything other than an opportunity to leave a darker mark than the one he attempted earlier. He doesn't notice the way Liam's body twists in aggravation, his lips are trying to find the perfect spot on the male's neck that will be soft enough to pull blood to its surface quickly. All he does is hum in response, testing out an area right below Liam's ear at the same time as he rolls his hips.

"Zayn..."

Like he had in the living room, Zayn lets the fingers of his left hand crawl further south, inching their way under the brief's elastic band.

"Zayn."

He's about to give a final lick to the purple mark that he's sucked into Liam's pristine white skin when hands are being pressed against his chest aggressively.

"Zayn!"

All at once, the seductive fog that's blocked out Zayn's sensibilities clears, Liam's desperate voice ringing out above it. His newfound sobriety snaps him into shape, feeling a familiar tingling sensation in his right forearm as Liam's finally able to break free from the hold it had on him. In the dimly lit room, Zayn can just barely make out the tail end of a cord seep back into his skin.

"You're hurting me."

Zayn's wide eyes turn from where a tattoo of a microphone is inked on his forearm, its cord connected and drawn around his wrist, to where Liam's sitting up, breathing deeply. Thankfully, when he turns to look over his shoulder in an attempt to check his back where Zayn's arm had been holding him, there's no sign of constriction marks.

"I'm so sorry," Zayn mutters in shock. He's too scared at almost having revealed his secret to be feeling anything else. Shock and guilt. How could he have let himself get so caught up in primal, instant gratification, that he put someone he's starting to care about in harm's way?

"It's ok," Liam replies once he can tell the suffocating hold wasn't done out of malice. "I can handle it a little rough, it's just, that..." He licks his lips swiftly, looking down at the tattoo Zayn's gone back to staring at. "That was too much."

Blinking himself straight, Zayn's eyes only return to Liam's when he's collected himself. It was a small slip-up, something that hasn't happened before, but the only thing that could make it worse is bringing more attention to it than is necessary. The only way out of this is to play it cool before the moment's ruined and Liam's perceptive skills start to show themselves.

"I'll pay more attention," he says sincerely. "I promise." Proving his words to be true, he places his hands back on Liam's sides delicately, mindful that the other might need time to trust them once more.

Without any response coming from Liam beyond a steady nod, the compact room stays quiet. From this point of view, Zayn can tell Liam's still turned on, and he's more than sure that Liam can feel it's the same for him given Liam's position sitting on top of his groin. It's frustrating not being able to act on such an ideal placement, but Zayn musters up the strength to fight his instincts of greed.

He simply watches and waits for Liam to make the first move and reassure him that he's ready or for him to say that they should try this again at a later date, he won't be able to think about anything other than his lungs being deprived of air for the remainder of the night. Neither comes. At least not verbally.

Lifting his leg, Liam rolls himself over to lay at Zayn's side. Although he's already got Zayn's attention, he still cups the man's cheek, fingertips moving in random patterns around his dark stubble. "You really like leaving marks." Slow and tantalizing, Liam's fingers wisp down Zayn's neck, stopping to rub a circle where a darkened one is currently fading from his own skin. The sensation's too much for Zayn to notice, he's got his eyes closed to focus on the ghostly touch, lips blindly trying to find Liam's, driven to take more when he's only being allowed a small peck.

"I really like hearing you say my name too," Zayn mumbles, keeping his tattoos in check when he feels a surge of pleasure go through his lower abs once the tent in his boxers rubs against the one in Liam's briefs during the process of taking back the lead and maneuvering his body to hover over the younger man's.

Like he's hopeless for what Zayn's about to do, Liam arches his back so that their hips can meet for a second time. His lips part, a light, airy moan escaping them. Zayn's desperate to hear it again, the way it's so intimate and quiet, like it's made for Zayn's ears only; no one else is allowed into their sanctum of ecstasy. So he closes his eyes and grinds down slowly, still acting with caution just in case Liam takes back the trust he's relinquished once again. But it's difficult given how filthy of a sound Liam lets out this time around.

This is the part of sex that Zayn loves most - the game. Learning what makes your partner tick, how to get them to do whatever you asked of them just because you're kissing the right places. Liam...well, Liam's an easy one to please it turns out. He likes it when Zayn gives him enough space in between them to feel around the other's body - his chest, obliques, the trail of hair that's leading to the area that needs to be touched the most. But as Liam's fingers roam further south, they pause to admire what's on his hips, half-hidden under the thick Calvin Klein band: a solid black heart on one side and an intricate revolver on the opposite, inked like it's sitting in the holster of his boxer briefs.

The way Liam's fingers just barely touch the skin around them make the hairs on Zayn's arms stand up, as does the languid "yeah, Zayn, yeah" that comes from the following rut that's a particularly hard one. Liam's on a mission after that, putting his tattoo kink aside and going straight for what matters.

Zayn's forehead drops down onto Liam's shoulder once he feels the man's grip through the polyester material. It's strong, yet gentle, attentive to what it can do; Zayn's weak to it. He turns his lips towards Liam's ear to let him know, but right before he does, he catches a glimpse of the man's neck. His clean neck.

The lovebite he'd taken the time to make is gone. There's just no way, that's impossible. He remembers sucking the skin in so sharply, that the mark that was meant to show up afterwards, would be there for days. It hadn't even been twenty minutes.

Before, it had just been a move done to get a reaction out of Liam, a part of the game he couldn't skip. But now, Zayn digs his teeth into Liam's neck in determination. His mind's focused on producing the most wicked bruise, possessively licking and moving his lips along the skin with expert-level delivery.

With their faces so close, Liam's sultry "Zayn" is loud and clear, the named man rocking his hips into Liam's hands with even more want. He sucks harder, wondering if that's what his name sounds like now, what will it sound like coming from a naked Liam?

Zayn's mouth doesn't stop its work as he uses one hand to guide Liam's away from the patch of wetness on the front of his pants to their waistband. Liam doesn't take his time, he pulls down the boxer briefs quickly, not even waiting for Zayn to kick them off before both his hands are back where they were.

Pausing his movements, Zayn groans into the crook of Liam's neck, the skin-on-skin contact a large hit of euphoria. And while that should be good enough, it's a teaser to what he really wants.

Abandoning his spot, he leans to the side and kicks his boxers off all the way, pulling Liam's briefs down while he's at it.

They're different, Zayn circumcised, hair trimmed, and Liam, not, yet fully bare of any wiry strands. It's a sight that drives Zayn mad. Liam's so manly in his build, so rough with his muscles and scratchy beard, but this whole time he's been walking around wearing silk briefs and practically freshly waxed. And with the way he's eyeing the two of their leaking cocks next to each other, Zayn reckons he might be thinking the same thing too.

Both of their eyes close when Zayn returns to his previous pace, continuously grinding their hips into each other. It's got sparks going through all of his body, but nothing compares to the feeling of Zayn's hand curling around both of them at the same time. He stops his thrusts and focuses on the friction his hand is creating.

Leaning upright, he watches the way Liam bites his lip at the momentum that Zayn's building. He needs to find out what sort of twisting of the wrist Liam likes. Is it sharp? The younger male's teeth dig deeper. What about squeezing the top half? A low cry comes as music to Zayn's ears. Yeah, ok, he can work with this.

And he does, alternating between tugging both their hard cocks at a quick and slow pace, making sure to always squeeze on the stroke up. At one point, he lets himself just feel, and takes his own dick away from Liam's, to run down the man's taint, only nudging the tip against his hole enough to tease, not actually make it out like he's going to go in raw like that.

"Fuck, Zayn..."

Zayn's eyes dart up from where he was taking in the stripe of glistening pre-cum that he made to Liam's tense jaw. He can't leave him like that, he needs to put him out of his misery. Or overwhelming pleasure, but Zayn's mind always leans towards the more evil of the two descriptions.

"Do you have any lube?" He asks, returning to his previous position and pulling on their cocks together. Just briefly Liam looks like he's about to say something, but Zayn swipes his thumb over the male's wet head and Liam gets the message: this will feel even better with more than what you're giving me.

Zayn's instinct is right too. With each of them slick, Zayn's hand can move a lot faster around the both of them, which equates to his name being echoed like a mantra. Underneath him he can feel Liam's thighs try and spread wider, then contract again. Zayn knows that signal all too well, so he adds more pressure to his twists and turns to get Liam where he needs to be. But nothing prepares Zayn for the striking bliss that comes over him when one of Liam's palms starts to rub circles around both of their slits.

Until he's in the moment, Zayn often forgets just how amazing getting off by someone else without penetration can be. On one hand, it's intimate - their need to just touch one another to elicit guttural moans. And on the other, it's a lot more direct stimulation.

Liam starts to chant Zayn's name differently the longer they hold on for. It's said with urgency, like the key to coaxing his orgasm out is to let it know who's responsible for it. And Zayn wants to be that magic ticket so fucking badly he can't stand it.

His hand starts to speed up, hips involuntarily moving along with it while Liam continues with his light circular movements as well. He's not even sure if Liam's making them consciously or if he's just on autopilot because his head's thrown back against the bed's pillows, eyes squeezed shut, and his other hand gripping the red duvet. He looks stunning, and for a second, Zayn's imagination wanders, thinking up what he might look like if he were about to come by way of his prostate being hit and not from Zayn's master squeezes. But his fantasies are cut short when Liam's hand falls and his breathing starts to stagger, Zayn's name coming to a halt, replaced by a higher register moan that puts all the rest to shame.

Only a few more tugs and he's coming on his own chest, white hitting his ribs, his sternum, even the underside of his chin when Zayn milks him threw it with a rougher squeeze than he was previously using. He keeps moaning every time he exhales, and the sounds, mixed with how he looks laying there in his own come makes Zayn unravel too. He purposefully jerks himself off solo to avoid overstimulating the other, and to aim properly, the long strips of white mixing with Liam's like some sort of masterpiece painting. From outside himself he can hear his own drawn out sigh of relief, but he's spent and far too engrossed in the itch he has to lean forward and lick the rogue splash that's in Liam's beard to care about what he sounded like.

Liam's quiet chuckles that come from feeling Zayn's tongue clean up his mess vibrate through Zayn's lips.

"You can use my briefs to wipe off the rest," Liam tells him quietly, his breathing just barely coming back to normal.

The pants aren't too far away, so when Zayn finishes with his voluntary task at hand, he picks them up and does as good of a job as he can getting them both clean now that a fair amount of white has transferred onto Zayn's body as well.

"That's not gonna ruin the smoothness of them, right?" Zayn asks once he's tossed the material as close as he can to the hamper that's on the side of the closet at the end of the bed, and takes his spot next to Liam.

The younger man looks at him with a tired smirk, "You like silk?"

"More than I thought I did," Zayn replies, kissing him with just as little energy.

"It won't ruin them," Liam reassures him, coy smile staying on his lips, "but I have others too."

"Thank god."

Under the covers, Liam wraps his arm around Zayn's torso and shifts his body so he's resting on his stomach. The weight reminds Zayn of his earlier mishap, the thought crossing his mind of whether he should apologize again for letting his emotions run wild, but Liam's tender "g'night Zayn" makes the choice for him.

Along with his soft "night", he places one hand on top of Liam's before closing his eyes.

The next morning, he wakes up in the same position. Almost.

As his eyes flutter open, Zayn can feel Liam's hand drag across his stomach.

"Hey, no," he protests, grabbing hold of the man gently. "Stay here. Where you goin'?"

A light kiss is placed on the back of his hand, but Zayn's stuck drifting in between sleep and a lazy consciousness to see Liam administer it.

"I've gotta go to work," Liam supplies in a whisper; it's close to Zayn's ear, just how he likes it. "And so do you, it's seven."

"What time do you have to be in for?"

"Eight."

"Stay home." Zayn's voice is riddled with sleep, even when he rolls over to cuddle himself close to Liam's naked body. "I want you here with me."

Instead of the younger man responding right away, there's a small pause. Warm and full of comfort, Zayn doesn't think much of it. He's too grateful for things going his way and being awarded extra time like this.

"I can't, people rely on me."

"Please," Zayn whines, his eyes cracking open so he can try to win over those toasty brown eyes with his hazel ones. "They'll understand. You can work from home. I'll go out to get a newspaper and then we both can. Please..."

Despite Liam almost always coming across as calm, he's exceptionally so after Zayn's short argument. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you say please," he says with a smile. "I never would've guessed it to come in the form of a beg either."

Zayn licks his dry lips in a bid to wake himself up a bit more, but his emotions stay in their magnified state. "Well it is. _Please_ let me make you breakfast."

After administering a sweet kiss to Zayn's cheek, then lips, Liam lets him down easy. "As much as I love Sleepy Zayn and his kindness, I really have to go. But," he drums his fingers along Zayn's shoulder, "you're welcome to join me for my shower..."

It's not exactly what Zayn had asked for, but he supposes that if he's getting kicked out, at least it'll be with a nice parting gift.

"See?" Liam says when Zayn's stretching like a house cat, still trying to claim the body next to him as a second blanket. "You're not such a bad boy after all."

Right as Zayn's about to make a snide remark about the rough love bite he left the night before, his eyes turn up to the spot and find it void of any red and purple mixture. He blinks a few more times to make sure that he's not just seeing things, but it is in fact gone. If he weren't in such a good, drowsy mood, he'd say something about how Liam's skin can heal in a heartbeat.

"No vicious comeback?" Liam raises his eyebrows and runs a hand through Zayn's hair lightly. "I need to keep you tired all the time."

Before he gets dragged to the shower, Zayn manages a dreamy, "Yes, please."

* * *

**L**

* * *

It's been eight years, when will the criminals of London learn that they should just give up their games? It may be impossible for Liam to personally handle all of them, but he's left a big enough impression capturing the supervillains that surface every now and again, that he'd think the small, petty crime offenders wouldn't want to come face to face with him. Statistically speaking, they have, but the brave hearted ones who think they can take on anyone, including Red Valor, still exist. Like these guys.

Two stocky men in black outfits with scarves covering their faces like bandits are walking around the back fencing of an exotic car dealership. One's carrying what looks like a tool box, but neither bothers to look up, they only survey their surroundings in front and behind. Considering Liam watched the shorter one disarm the security system on the side gate, he's surprised by how weary they're acting, especially with two lookout cars parked out front. Regardless, he gives it less than two minutes before he's got them rounded up and ready for the police to haul away.

The sound of his shoes hitting the pavement isn't what alerts the two thieves of his presence, it's Liam's swift kick that sends their dangling toolbox flying. Immediately, both men produce hunting knives from inside their black jackets, but the movements aren't a match for Liam's superhuman reflexes. He ducks to his right, dodging one man's lunge forward, then uses his left elbow to knock the second's knife out of his hand before it even comes close to stabbing him.

With the small window he's afforded himself, he summons a worn out tyre from the pile leaning up against the chain link fence. Its weight knocks the first man down, Liam kicking his weapon away before forcing the tyre into the air where he melts it into an open horseshoe. Once it's hardened back to rubber, he uses it to pin the man up against the fence, the back of the tyre closing when Liam's hand motions for it to; he's not going anywhere.

In his peripheral, Liam can make out the man's partner going for the toolbox that broke open after hitting the ground; he's pulling out a short crowbar. Liam's right there, grabbing hold of the metal before the man can even process Liam's movements. They fight for possession of it, but Liam's footwork is unparalleled, tripping the other like a strategic MMA fighter and pinning him down to the ground like one too. He's careful when he bends the bar, making sure that the bright red portion stays where he wants it at the new point of curvature and doesn't travel to the part of the metal that he's binding around the other's hands like thick handcuffs; it all happens in a matter of seconds, thanks to the countless hours he took when he was younger, perfecting his directed focus. Even though the man would be an idiot to run away without any means to get these off, Liam delivers a punch to his head, rough enough to keep him sidelined, yet precise to the point that he won't suffer from anything other than a few cuts and deep bruises.

He leaves the crooks to wallow in their anguish, skirting around the edge of the car lot to catch their lookouts off guard. Behind a parked car along the curb, he can make out one of the spotter vans a few spaces ahead of his position, and another at the end of the road near the main street. A speedy survey of his environment tells Liam that he can easily approach the vehicle normally using the sidewalk, but what fun would that be? Instead, he's nimble on his feet, ascending the fence that continues around the front of the property.

Near the top, six meters above the ground, Liam scales the wall horizontally until he's just slightly behind his target. Right as he's about to launch himself down from the high angle, a ringing noise flows through the earbud that's hidden under his mask.

Only two numbers are programmed to bypass the Do Not Disturb mode on his phone, and since he left Niall to watch golf from the safety of their flat while he used his day off to organically crime hunt, the police scanner on in the background, Liam gears himself up for what he's about to hear.

"What'd you find?" He answers after pressing on the earpiece through his disguise.

"Is that any way to answer the phone to your mother?"

The loud _thud_ that comes from Liam landing on the roof of the van matches the drop in his stomach when he hears that familiar tone of voice. "Mum..."

"Who else would it be?" The woman replies calmly.

At this moment in time, Liam really wishes the answer to that was Niall. When it comes down to it, he knows he's a mummy's boy, but during instances like this, not feeling guilty for letting his mum go to voicemail would be incredibly useful.

"Sorry, I didn't look at the name before I answered."

The passenger door opens and a middle-aged man leans out to see what's just hit the car. His eyes widen when he recognizes Liam's costume before he scrambles to get back in the van. Rather than try and break the glass to pull the man back out, Liam simply considers the locking of the door a courtesy. With his palm facing the handle, the alloy melts, effectively barricading him in.

"How have you been since I saw you last weekend?"

His question ends with a grunt, the driver of the car having turned it on and shifted it into gear abruptly. Because of the sudden movement, Liam creates handles out of the roof's metal under his hands to hold on to. Before they get too far, he leans his chest over the edge of the roof and lets go of one makeshift grip to liquify a front tyre. As soon as he does so, his body jerks aggressively, almost falling off the roof completely once the car's axle is thrown off. It simultaneously grinds to a halt and spins dramatically in accordance with the only good directional tyre left.

"I've been well," the woman replies clearly, "but your father's been pestering me about buying a new recliner."

While he's hurrying to melt the other three exterior handles of the car, Liam can see the second lookout sedan start to approach rapidly in the corner of his eye. Being that there's nothing obstructing its path, and to avoid getting hit straight on, he sticks out both hands to mimic his previous action in melting the car's tyres to the road.

"Mhmm," he says while sliding down the windscreen of the van and off the hood. "How much is that gonna be?"

As he approaches the vehicle, the driver and passenger hop out, each taking off in different directions. If only the conjuring part of his telekinesis could move living things, then he wouldn't need to make a speedy assessment on which of the men is more important to go after first.

"He says he found one in good shape for seventy quid, but I don't know if it'll last." His mother pauses her train of thought right as Liam rips the hood of the car off from afar and throws it against the dead end alleyway the passenger ran down, trapping him in by melding the edges of the metal to the brick buildings on each side. "Are you ok? You sound out of breath and it's awfully loud."

Turning his head, Liam can make out the driver's grey hoodie already halfway down the street. The man's not the fastest runner, so there's no doubt in Liam's mind that he can catch up to him, but if it weren't for his focus being split between what's in front of his eyes and what's coming through his right ear, the criminal wouldn't have had the chance to already get that far.

"Yeah, I'm just-" One huge leap and Liam's landing on a nearby parked car, jumping between the row of them in order to beat the piling traffic that the perpetrator's having to weave in and out of. "A little busy at the moment."

"Oh, well you should've just told me," the woman replies in a remorseful tone. "I'm here chattin' your ear off about furniture when you've got things you need to do."

The man looks over his shoulder to see if Liam's still following him, almost running into a delivery truck in the process. He turns left down the neighborhood's major street as Liam hops off the last car, right on his tail.

"No, it's alright," he says as smoothly as possible in a sprint. "I've always got time for you."

In the distance, sirens are going off, signaling that if Liam quit now, he wouldn't need to worry about the last of the criminals getting away, but the completionist in him won't let his feet come to a stop. Instead, he uses them to propel his body upwards, grabbing on to the ledge of a bus stop overhang and pulling himself up.

"That's sweet of you," his mother replies, "but I can tell when you've got your mind somewhere else. Just ring me later, ok?"

Keeping his momentum, Liam runs the short length and then throws himself above traffic and towards a hanging street light. He holds on to the silver pole for less than a second, then, while he's in the air, he sucks in a breath, preparing himself for the heavy impact he's going to endure once he lands. On the way down from the cusp of his curved free fall, he manages a short, "ok, love you", hitting his ear roughly to end the call.

As soon as his feet touch the ground, he tucks his body and rolls with the kinetic energy. He comes out of it in a power sprint, only needing to exert himself a few more yards to catch up with the man he's never taken his eyes off.

Both make a disgruntled noise when Liam shoves him up against the short wooden barrier that separates the local park from the sidewalk they're standing on. Under his grasp, there's no resistance, so Liam takes a small step back to ensure the man's chest isn't in too much pain smashed into the wood.

The sirens that were once quiet are now blaring. When Liam looks over his shoulder, he can see that the patrol cars they're attached to are pulling up behind them. He lets the man go completely, knowing it's impossible for him to escape with the police ten seconds away from exploding out of their vehicles.

His chest is heaving, but Liam knows better than to stick around and wait for the crowd that's gathering to make a bigger scene than it's already become. He nods his head to the police, the courteous smile on his lips lost behind the tight mask that's covering it, before taking off. First jumping onto the wood planks, then running down them with ease. At the corner of the intersection he just flew across there's a large sycamore tree. He jumps and grabs one of the low-hanging branches, pulling himself up and climbing high enough to where he can jump off and land on the same street light he used before. This time, he runs along it and uses its small amount of elasticity to help cast him onto the nearest residential roof. Even though he knows his powers won't let him fall, he still pays attention to his footing while hopping from one slanted rooftop to the next.

Safe in the back of an alley, next to his bike and blocks away from where the arrests he helped secure are taking place, Liam leans side to side, stretching his body. His breathing's back to normal, and because of that, he lifts the seat of his bike to pull out his phone and call his mum back. But before he can find her name, another pops up on the screen.

As he brings the bike back to life, Liam yanks his mask off and answers with a cheerful, "Hi!"

"Hey." He can hear the smile in Zayn's voice once he registers the background noise. "Sounds like you're near my favourite speedster."

Emptying the bike's storage compartment of his oversized joggers and hoodie, Liam recalls the way Zayn's eyes lit up Thursday morning when they saw what Liam meant by "I'll drop you off at your office". Already fascinated at learning Zayn's weakness to be mornings in bed, Liam was quite thrilled to see that the older man had an animated side to him too. It had been such a treat to discover, that Liam even indulged it by revving the bike up when Zayn had asked him to while they were waiting at a red light. With fingers dug into his sides, a feeling of protectiveness came over Liam that he thrived off for the rest of the day. Much like he did with the image of Zayn, walking up the steps to his office, hastily tucking his two sizes too big shirt back into his trousers.

"I'm about to get on," Liam informs him while slipping his joggers over his suit. "Are we still meeting up for dinner and a film later?" He asks, checking the time on his phone to make sure that it hadn't gotten away from him in the midst of keeping London safe. He's still got two hours before he needs to be home.

"The dinner, yeah." There's a 'but' in there somewhere, and the fact that Zayn doesn't just come out and say it worries the hero. "Do you like punk?"

Liam tosses his hoodie on. "Music?"

"Yes, Liam," Zayn grinds out after a disturbingly loud sigh. "Punk _music_."

"I don't really know what it sounds like if I'm honest." One of the bike's small side mirrors reflects back Liam's new image, completely void of any superhero suit or signs thereof. He cinches the drawstrings anyway. "Do you?"

"No, but my brother's boyfriend does. They were supposed to go to this gig tonight with a couple of friends, but something came up, so now they've got two extra tickets. You wanna go?"

As he's about to pull his seat back down and shove his helmet on, Liam halts. "With your brother and his boyfriend?"

"I'm recanting my invitation if you're just going to keep answering my questions with other questions," Zayn growls impatiently.

More because he's in a state of dismay than he does feel threatened by Zayn's tone, Liam answers quickly. "Yeah sure, we can go."

"Great. Then I'll see you at six."

"Yeah," Liam replies blindly, "see you."

For the remainder of the afternoon, instead of keeping his eyes peeled for trouble, Liam rides around London overthinking what's to come. Zayn's made it clear, through answering Liam's inventive questions and by virtue of getting more comfortable around the younger man, that his brother, Harry, is the person he's closest to. And if Liam's intuition is right - as its track record has proven it to almost always be - he's also Zayn's only real friend. Besides Louis. It's become pretty clear to Liam over this past month that Zayn isn't one who plays well with others, even if by choice. Which is why Liam feels borderline honoured that he's been able to keep the older man's attention for this long. He doesn't consider listening to Zayn properly and focusing on the good that he knows is under the sharp edges commendable; it's what someone _should_ do. But in Zayn's eyes, it's obviously the golden ticket to meeting his entire posse of two.

Maybe Liam's making something out of nothing. Perhaps there's no agenda, it's just a coincidence that on a night they were already planning on going out, something came up that involved a family member of Zayn's. It could be entirely plausible that Zayn genuinely wanted to go see the band play and invited Liam along so he didn't have to awkwardly bail at the end of dinner. And yet, Liam still takes twenty minutes raiding his closet for the perfect outfit that's punk appropriate and can also garner an approval rating higher than six.

"Date?" Niall asks when Liam enters their living room.

"His brother's coming."

Dressed in a pair of black jeans, a white t-shirt (that he made sure to iron three times), and an eggshell coloured jean jacket, Liam does a twirl in front of the TV.

"What shoes?"

"My black trainers," Liam says, looking over at the area near the front door where they're waiting for him. When he focuses back on Niall, stretched out on the couch and silent as he examines Liam's outfit, panic starts to rise up. "What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?"

As Liam looks down at his clothes for any stains that he missed, Niall bursts out laughing. "I wanted to see how long it'd take you to realize you're asking the wrong person for fashion advice." Liam breathes a sigh of relief, and walks towards his shoes in contempt. "You look good, alright? You've got the Irish seal of approval."

There's no telling how much that counts, but it's better than nothing, especially when Liam needs some sort of courage to latch on to when he walks into the Italian restaurant and spots Zayn, already accompanied.

Once Zayn's eyes look up from the ones he was staring at across the booth and identify Liam, his lips creep up into a smile. One of the people sitting opposite him turns around and adjusts his height so he can discern what the cause for the switch in dispositions is.

"Hi." Zayn's voice is soft in Liam's ear as they hug, the latter using it as an anchor to calm his nerves.

As they pull away, Liam repeating the greeting, Zayn stands back to address the other two. "Liam, this is my brother Harry."

The man that's being gestured to steps out of the booth and offers his hand with a charming smile. Naturally, Liam reciprocates the firm handshake, but he's confused. Zayn's got olive skin, this man's is one shade lighter than Liam's. Zayn's a smidgen shorter than average, and Harry's got quite a few inches on Liam's height of six foot. Zayn's hair is straight, jet black, and this lad's is a tawny brown, curly as ever. They don't resemble brothers in the slightest, and when Harry opens his mouth to tell Liam, "It's so good to finally meet you", he's got no accent to his speech other than British.

"You too," Liam replies after clearing his throat, leaning over to the male who had turned around in the seat he's still sitting in and shaking his hand next.

"That's his dhakkan." While Louis glares at the use of the foreign word, Liam looks to Zayn for clarification. "The closest translation is just," Zayn shrugs, still holding a huge smile, "a person who's foolish."

"Bloody liar. My real name's Louis," the man snips, dropping his hand to his lap at the same time Liam does. "He's being nice now that you're here. Told me it meant dumbass."

Following Zayn's open palmed invite to take the booth's inside seat, Liam tucks away the translation, as well as the adjective 'nice' being used to describe the man who's shimmying in after him.

"There's no word for it in English, so my definition might differ from time to time," Zayn claims with cheek. "And because no one at this table speaks Urdu, I can translate whatever I want, however I want, and all of you have no choice but to believe what I say."

Before he opens up his menu, Liam sneaks a glance at Harry once more to put together any other pieces to his puzzle now that Liam knows for certain he's not from Pakistan, but he quickly finds he's already being observed and diverts his line of vision down to the leather tri-fold.

As Louis mulls over a comment to Zayn's remark, their waitress interrupts, asking for Liam's drink order and if they've all chosen what to eat. Three sets of eyes turn to Liam, but he's simple and doesn't need to look through the menu long to know that a cheese ravioli is enough to keep him happy.

Once the woman's left and the table's back to producing organic conversation, Liam begins to run through the infinite icebreaker questions he's memorized throughout the years, for dating and scenarios like this, but he hesitates on picking one. There's a different sort of pressure that comes from wanting to impress people for the sake of someone else.

"Thanks for inviting me to the show," Liam says, cutting the silence with as confident of a tone as he can muster. "I haven't been to one in a while."

"You like the band?" Louis asks.

Suddenly, it occurs to Liam that he's got no idea what the band's name even is. He really should've asked when Zayn left it out, done his research and listened to a few songs on the way over. Now, he just looks like an idiot.

"Um..."

"No one likes them because no one's heard of them," Zayn swoops in. "They're as underground as a casket. They'll be lucky if anyone other than their number one fan shows up." Though he's grateful for the save, Liam wonders why, if Zayn clearly hates the group, they were going. "Did you make a sign?"

Louis' lips turn up, "Yeah, it says 'I'm with stupid' and has an arrow pointing at you."

There's no helping the small laughter that Liam lets slip, he's too enthralled by how perfectly matched Zayn is by the scruffy male sitting diagonal from him. In fact, it's the kind bickering that makes Liam more inclined to believe Louis' Zayn's brother more than Harry is.

"I'll make sure not to get in between you two then," he comments.

Louis turns to Liam and eyes his smile with a small one of his own, speaking to him, but going back to staring at his friend. "Zayn told you I like a sense of humour I see..."

"I'm sorry," Zayn interjects before Liam even gets the chance to figure out a clever enough response, "am I dating him or are you?"

Surely there's a light blush on Liam's cheeks at the possessiveness in Zayn's tone, but he's forced to forget about what he looks like when Louis ignores the jab and continues to address the outsider.

"Tell me Liam, what is it that you see in this wanker?"

On the other side of the table, two bitten back smiles watch for Liam's reaction, a third, more subdued one is certainly aimed his way as well, but he's too flustered to check. Without a doubt, it's the test of all tests, but Liam's not about to crack under pressure. Never does he want to come off as anything other than authentic, so he simply tells the truth.

"Suppose it's a bit of opposites attract."

"You mean to say you _don't_ fantasize about murder every day?"

"Lou..."

"What?" Louis turns to his boyfriend who's holding an expression that heeds as much of a warning as his nickname had. "It's not possible for Zayn to have gone this long without talking about how much he hates his coworkers."

At his side, Liam can _feel_ the weight fall from Zayn's shoulders. "It's pretty much a daily topic of conversation," he confirms without acknowledging the renewed state of relaxation.

"See?" Louis boasts straight into Harry's face, unbothered by the fact that the other won't indulge him and look his way.

"But no," Liam says, getting back on track, "I actually get on amazingly with the people I work with. Sometimes we even go out after locking up. What a concept," he adds, nudging Zayn who just makes a noise of disapproval as a response.

"You work with homeless kids, right?" Harry asks, earning Liam's attention.

"Young adults," he corrects kindly, "but every once and a while the centre gets used by a youth organization nearby. So sometimes I do get to work with the little ones."

Nodding, Harry seems relatively indifferent, though his calm, accepting demeanor still radiates towards Liam as he replies, "Sounds fulfilling."

"Yeah, it is. I couldn't think of a better job in the world really." For a moment, Liam gets lost in the overwhelming pride he has for the lives he gets to change just by turning up and showing an interest in those often overlooked. "But so does yours," he's quick to add. "You're a therapist, right?" When Harry hums in confirmation, Liam inquires about something he's never quite grasped the concept of. "How do you not take your work home with you? I can't imagine the things you must hear."

To Harry's left, Louis' slight impatience at not being able to have a say in the topic that's taken over can be sensed through the rather loud stirring of his straw, but neither Harry, nor Liam pay it too much attention. The former's visibly impressed by the unique question, which in turn, fills the latter with even more pride.

"I hear about it," Harry starts in a professional tone of voice, "yet you're the one who sees the unfortunate aftermath of what can happen when someone who oftentimes needs it, isn't treated." It's an astute observation that Liam's never managed to piece together himself. "Our mum's a therapist too, so I get a lot of good advice from her. You know, on how to leave everything at the office. I promise," he smiles, "I'm not going to analyze you."

"Not unless you pay him," Louis butts in. "We can use the extra cash to take with us to Monaco this summer."

Because Zayn's stuck true to his word and not spoken of his past, save a few stories of going through adolescence alongside Harry, being told that their mother's a therapist is news to Liam. And while he should be pleased to be let in on what he considers to be significant information, it leaves him with even more questions now that the solid 'our mum' label can officially rule out Zayn simply referring to Harry as a brotherly figure; they're obviously related to some degree.

For the rest of the meal, he looks out for any hints that can aid in solving the family riddle, but nothing reveals itself. Only that Harry's as compassionate as his words make him out to be, keeping his laughing to a minimum any time Zayn or Louis make a vulgar joke he knows he shouldn't encourage, but can't help but find amusing. And that goes for the banter aimed at each other _and_ the dear waitress that, at first, took it as flirting, but has now come to realize that she was given the table from hell. Certain instances present themselves where Harry just can't keep quiet, he needs to contribute a few jokes to the bunch, including one that's at his own expense involving a reenactment of what he looked like banging on the bus doors to let him in when he was running late the other morning. Liam especially takes note of how the curly haired man doesn't even flinch, nor interfere, when Zayn's anger flares up briefly at the table behind them who have requested for every single one of their courses to be extra hot. "As if this isn't a fucking restaurant where they serve hot food, ungrateful pricks." It shows just how great of a restraint Harry really has to turn himself on and off as a therapist, staying quiet as he eats his pasta. But Liam can't sit by idly. He's programmed to act in a time of need, even if that's just through a small squeeze to Zayn's thigh to let him know he's there and a whispered, "cool down, it's alright".

Louis doesn't bat an eye either, and if anything, sitting through this meal has given tremendous validity to the partner in crime picture that Liam's been able to paint from all the various stories Zayn's told him over the past month. However, being in his presence does allow for Liam to see firsthand just _how_ much Louis likes to push buttons. And much to Liam's delight, Zayn isn't excluded from his hitlist.

What Zayn's always failed to mention is that Louis' got an affectionate side to him too. Aside from ensuring Harry's always heard, never overshadowed by his and Zayn's back and forth, he sees to it that they always maintain some sort of contact. Each time their hands brush on accident, they spare each other a tiny smile like they're alone in the room.

It's sweet, in a love for old souls sort of way, and makes Liam wonder, why hasn't osmosis kicked in with Zayn? Sure, they hold hands when they're walking sometimes, and they engage in PDA every now and again, but to Liam, it feels like they somehow managed to skip over the honeymoon stage and cruise right into coziness; a seamless transition over nervous electricity and straight into a cloak of relaxation. The release you get coming home after a long day, kicking off your shoes and sinking into the sofa cushions. Or the cool smoothness he feels laying his head on his pillow at night directly after fully shaving, and the weightless sensation of drifting off to sleep under a mountain of thick blankets. That's what it feels like every time he's in Zayn's presence.

And now, seeing him in front of his brother and best friend, it's become evident that Liam's not alone in feeling that way. How Zayn includes Liam - treats him like the group's always been made up of four and not three, hands over the torch for him to finish the second half of the story on how their previous plans of going to the cinema didn't involve any argument on what to watch (apparently Zayn too picked out all the unrealistic impossibilities within any action film so much so that he can't ever sit through a full film) - gives off the impression that he's no longer operating with an agenda, good or bad. He couldn't, not with the way he hides against Liam's arm to laugh himself to tears when Louis tells a joke about one of his company's new interns who's been coming into the office every Friday for weeks now, too shy to ask why he's been the only one there up until this past Friday.

However, that's not to say that Liam's immune to experiencing those tiny sparks that come with a fresh relationship all together. His nerves still very much stir when he's caught eyeing the dessert menu and gets his personal space invaded by Zayn cupping a hand over his ear to let him know he's already thought that far ahead. A peek into his leather jacket pocket invokes a sense of déjà vu, the same exotic chocolate bar they shared on their second date ready to split on the walk to the venue.

But before Zayn can snap off a piece for them both outside the restaurant, Louis insists they slip into the shop next door for him to get as tipsy as possible, for as cheap as possible.

"Do you want anything else?" Zayn asks as they stroll the sweets aisle. "I'm not about to down a can of Carlsburg." They both turn to stare at Louis, sizing up two cans to see which is bigger. "Better off getting tipsy from a Diet Coke, but I'll split one of those little travel size tequila's with you if you want. I think my stomach's settled from the bolognese, so I wouldn't be running the risk of being sick in the street somewhere."

"More romantic words have never been spoken."

Liam watches in endearment as Zayn glances up from where he'd gone back to examining a packet of spicy Skittles.

"Travel size...wine bottles?" the older man tries. The packet gets swiped from his grasp with nothing other than a fond smile. "I'm not gonna recite poetry for you if that's what you're waiting for," Zayn adds sarcastically.

From the second Liam watched Zayn shoo away another participant at the snap of his fingers while trying to plow through the sushi spread the night they met, he knew exactly what type of person Zayn is. And furthermore, what he signed up for by seeing one.

"I'm not," he replies. "Bad boys don't do that."

A sly smile comes over Zayn's lips, "You're right, they don't." With much more greed than is necessary, he gives Liam a onceover, snatching the sweets back once he's had his fill. "I'm gonna get these, see how spicy they really are. What do you want?"

"I told you," Liam insists, doing his best to dismiss the bashfulness he knows is written across his forehead, "I don't want anything else."

"No, just me, right?"

As Zayn advances towards him, all Liam can hear is his own voice reading back the older man's text.

_He can be VERY charming if he wants._

"On second thought..."

Liam's giggle is swallowed by Zayn's kiss, a punishment for simply joking about chocolate being a superior choice to the person in front of him.

"Oi!" Louis calls at the end of the aisle. "Quit snogging and let's go."

There's just enough space for Liam to see Zayn's middle finger get tossed up in response when they break apart for a moment, but his second round of hushed laughter becomes silenced yet again by Zayn's lips telling him to _focus, distractions aren't welcome._

They do make it out of the shop eventually, hands clasped for the duration of the short walk to the venue until Zayn's pulling away to retrieve his wallet. Behind one of his credit cards, he produces a twenty pound note all the while passing the line of around thirty.

"Where are we-"

"I'm not standing in the cold," Zayn says, nipping the four tickets Louis' got out of his pocket and sticking the twenty in between two of them. "You good?" He greets the bouncer, handing over the flimsy cardstock.

Humour crosses over the tank of a man's face, but when Zayn rubs the tickets together so that a corner of the hidden money can be seen, he sobers up. "Yeah, all good mate. Through the doors to security."

Zayn raises his eyebrows in thanks, taking back the ripped tickets and nudging Liam to go in front of him.

"You shouldn't do that," Liam chastises, emptying his essentials into the small trays aside the metal detector. "We could've waited like everyone else."

"Don't worry, it didn't really cost me." As soon as he's done being checked over by a magnetic wand, Liam turns around to face Zayn, his eyes widening when the man elaborates quietly, "That was a counterfeit."

"What?" Liam hisses, looking around their immediate surroundings to make sure no one's eavesdropping or heard in passing.

"Yeah, I know a guy."

The casualness in which Zayn speaks of such an illegal activity strikes Liam as more than mildly concerning. It's as if producing imitation currency is as harmless as leaving your car at an expired meter.

"Do you pay for everything with fake money?" Liam asks, weary as to whether or not he wants to know the answer just in case it's not the right one and the troubled man with a good heart comes crashing down as an illusion.

"No, only when I'm bribing people." Trepidation stays circling within Liam, even after the brazen confession. As he tries to recall any time he's been with Zayn where he paid in cash (as if doing that would make a difference, Liam had no clue how to spot counterfeit anything), the older man takes notice of his remaining hesitation. "I swear," he says, keeping eye contact while drawing a cross over his heart. "I'm not cheating the system if the ones that I am, aren't actual systems in the first place."

There's something to be said about how frank Zayn is with his reasoning that sways Liam's judgement, but still. What sorts of situations does he get himself into where he needs to bribe people at all?

Before Liam can wander closer to the stage where several hundreds are already gathered, hoping to get the best view their general admissions ticket can afford them, he's stopped by Louis' voice.

"I wouldn't get too close," he warns. "Unless you enjoy mosh pits."

Now that he's been made privy to what the mostly male concert goers are capable of, and very likely to act on, Liam stays put. "Don't think I do."

"Yeah, your pressed white t-shirt says that for you."

A simple glance down at his outfit proves Liam to be the opposite of a black sheep, a majority of the crowd dressed in dark ensembles made even darker in the dimly lit, concrete standing space. At least he had the common sense to not pull out anything from the more flamboyant end of his closet.

"You look wonderful." Zayn's compliment washes away any of the minute insecurities that have surfaced. "And I'd kill anyone who so much as stumbles in your direction, mark my words."

When the initial chivalry of the promise wears off, Liam wonders if Zayn would really do as he said. He's threatened a lot of people in front of Liam, told them to do a lot more than watch their backs, but does he have it in him to actually hurt someone? Liam's not sure, especially now that he's aware of how the man nonchalantly takes part in felony worthy crime. And even though he's curious to know the answer, he also doesn't really want to find out at his own expense, so Liam sticks close to Zayn's side while the rest of the audience files in, and well through the opening act.

Like he predicted, the music's not his style at all. On the other side of Zayn, Louis can be heard singing along to every word, leaving Liam in anticipation to find out how much enthusiasm he'll have for the actual headliner if this is what he's like for the support. It's obvious by Harry's generic head bobs that he's got no idea who these people are, but is in the spirit solely to make his boyfriend happy. As for Zayn, he couldn't look any less interested if he tried, breaking off pieces of chocolate like it's a way for him to keep busy more than he truly craves the bittersweet dessert. Of which hasn't fallen victim to the insulation of Zayn's jacket lining, the man's body heat, or the masses surrounding them. Liam can't for the life of him figure out how the chocolate's stayed solid.

"Can I ask you a question?" He says once he's alone with Zayn, the other two off somewhere begrudgingly paying the cost of a drink before the main act starts.

"Not if you're going to react to whatever I say with a chain of them."

Ignoring the playful slight, Liam speaks his mind. "Why are we here?"

"What do you mean?" Right as Liam's about to scold Zayn in good nature for doing the exact thing he's prohibited, the older man catches the slip up and rephrases himself. "If you didn't want to come, you could've just told me and we would've gone to the cinema. We can still go if you want." He checks his wristwatch, "I doubt we'll be able to make the showing we originally planned on, but if you're unhappy-"

"I'm not unhappy," Liam jumps in. "It's just..." Looking between Zayn's eyes, picking apart his awaiting stare, it's obvious there's no use in trying to pad his real thoughts. "You hate this music."

Right away, Zayn's expression twists from puzzled, to sly. "What gives you that impression?"

"If you don't like the band, then why did we come?"

Liam's persistence on getting his original question answered seems to throw Zayn off and out of his cocky attitude. He diverts his eyes and reaches into one of his jacket's outer pockets to pull out the packet of Skittles. "It's like I told you, there were extra tickets."

Rather than dig deeper to uncover the full truth, not the bent one that Zayn's given him, Liam takes a deep breath and looks above the heads of the audience in search of two familiar faces. It's gotten fairly crowded since their arrival. Should they need help finding their way back, he's ready to wave them down.

"They're really cute," Liam thinks out loud, "Harry and Louis."

"Yeah, something like that." Zayn's voice seems distracted, and when Liam stops scanning the masses, he sees that it's because he's examining the various flavour profiles outlined on the backside of the sweets packaging. "You'll get over it. It wears off as soon as it comes."

"Why aren't they married?"

Chuckling, Zayn rips open the package and tosses one of the brightly coloured pebble candies into his mouth. "I'll give you a real twenty if you ask them that." Without warning, his face scrunches up, twisting further when he forces himself to swallow what's in his mouth. "Fuck, these are horrible."

"No, I'm serious," Liam pushes, not wanting for another one of his questions to be brushed under the rug. "You said they've been together for eight years. What's the hold up?"

Having just denounced the sweets in his hand, Zayn's paying them a lot more attention than Liam would've thought just a few moments ago. "Louis' a cheap bastard," he answers indifferently, shaking out more of the Skittles into the palm of his hand.

"That's it?" Liam asks with skepticism.

"Have you seen how many rings Harry wears?" The light orange candies get separated from the reds and yellows while Zayn talks. "He's not the easiest to shop for when it comes to jewelry."

"I like him."

Finally, Zayn looks up, searching Liam's expression to see how much truth really sat in his words, "Yeah?"

"He's kind of like a chill extrovert," Liam replies with a small nod.

It's an opinion that's been in the making for quite some time now, all Liam needed was to witness the man in action for his inclination to be confirmed. Up until that night, he's only been able to put together a profile of the man based on the stories Zayn's told him, mainly centered around the fact that Zayn was always the brains behind the operations when they were younger, Harry the one to execute them as long as he could do so with his own personal touch. Anything that required attention, he'd volunteer for because, "if there's one thing Harry loves more than Louis, it's being encouraged to show his true self". Dressed in rings galore, suede chelsea boots, and a vintage band t-shirt from the 80's that any thifter would die for, Harry couldn't bring any more justice to Liam's mental image if he tried.

"I like Louis too," Liam continues. "He's a good balance for him. And so are you." He snags one of the yellow candies that Zayn's separated. "I can see why you have such a strong brotherly bond."

"Yeah, well, they like you too," Zayn grins, watching as Liam's taste buds influence the look on his face in real time: first unbothered, and then repulsed all at once.

"How can you tell?" He asks after swallowing, his tongue rubbing against the roof of his mouth eagerly to try and get rid of the acidic lemon aftertaste that lingers.

"Louis hasn't made fun of your personality, only your outfit."

"And Harry?"

Zayn smirks, " _All_ he's been meaning to talk to you about is your outfit."

Unless the two have some sort of telepathy, it's unclear how he's able to sense something so specific, but with the couple showing up at Zayn's side, it looks like the answer will remain a mystery.

"Guess how much I paid for a pint?" Louis dares, sipping the froth from the plastic cup's edge.

Zayn's "how much?" and Liam's "eight quid?" mix together, but it's the latter that wins with the point of a finger.

"It should be a crime, that," Louis complains. "Do something about it Zayn."

Again, Liam's lost, assuming that he must be missing out on an inside joke, yet as he looks to his right, ready to ask Zayn what Louis meant, he feels another body saddle up next to him.

"Where do you think the best place to buy vintage denim in the city is?" Harry wonders in a lax tone, the wine from dinner, combined with the colourful drink in his hand a hint as to why. "This is vintage isn't it?"

The residual taste of chile lemon in Liam's mouth dissipates the moment he's being given Harry's version of approval, a contained smile visible throughout their conversation, lost only when the background music ends and the house lights are cut.

Those in the audience erupt in anticipation of what's to come. Behind the instruments, a glitching screen is projected onto the muslin backdrop, imitating the eerie discomfort of a horror film. Audio snippets of electric guitar and drums fight to be the superior instrument. Shadowy figures start to run onto the stage, taking their places like gods among their followers, waiting to hear their names chanted out in unison. As the music starts to build, so does the crowd. And then, in sync with the sound cutting off abruptly, the room goes black. All's silent. As the seconds pass by, no one dares to move.

Lights from all around flicker wildly among an ear piercing sound effect akin to artillery rounds going off.

Instantly, Zayn slams both hands over his ears, his body bending over like he's been kicked in the stomach, his eyes squeezed shut as if he really is in some sort of physical pain.

The surge of noise and lights last for all of about five seconds before giving way to live cymbals being crashed down on - a signal that the real show has begun. The lights return to their programmed spotlights and filtered effects, but Liam's focus is on something much more pressing.

"What's wrong?" Liam shouts over the music, right hand pressed against Zayn's back lightly. He's gone into panic mode, trying to figure out what he's missed. The opener played at the same volume, so it couldn't be the sound levels. "Zayn!"

But Zayn doesn't respond. From what Liam can see, the man's eyes only tighten further.

Trained to keep calm in a high-stress environment, Liam assesses Zayn's body further while gently trying to lead the both of them away to a place with less stimulus. But the movement isn't welcome, and Zayn flinches, only opening his eyes so that he can locate the way out behind him.

"Zayn!"

Harry's yell comes after Zayn's backed away from Liam and started to push his way through the crowd. He moves like he has tunnel vision, desperate to escape whatever or whoever is responsible for the pain he's in. Liam makes a move to join Harry, who's begun the same bob and weave pattern, but there's a strong grip on his arm that holds him back.

"Harry's the only one who can handle it," Louis tells him close to his ear so he doesn't have to shout. "It's best you don't try."

But Liam can't just stand there, reeling in the gut wrenching feeling that comes from watching Zayn practically run from Harry and not do anything. He looks back to Louis, bewildered, "I don't know what happened."

Louis doesn't reply, only shrugs sympathetically until Harry materializes next to them a minute later, alone.

"He's sensitive to loud noises sometimes," he explains, head tilted towards Liam's so close that their temples almost touch. "I'm really sorry."

"So he's not coming back?"

"Most likely not."

Even though Harry's the person who knows Zayn better than Zayn probably knows himself, Liam refuses to believe him and turns his head back to the door.

He waits.

For the leather jacket he's growing unbelievably fond of to show itself, or for Zayn to come back with a new bar of chocolate to make things bearable again. But the blaring 'EXIT' sign is all he's met with.

When he gives up on thinking his wishes into existence, Liam returns his attention to the man on stage who's singing about anarchist bullshit. He's got a relatively powerful stage presence, but Liam's mind is elsewhere, thinking about how odd he feels standing there without so much as a goodbye from the person who invited him. He's empathetic towards anxiety and how that can manipulate a person's behaviour to one they can't recognize themselves, but he wishes Zayn would've realized by now that Liam could handle something like what just happened given how much he talks about his job and the troubled souls he comes across on a daily basis because of it.

He manages to stick it out for two more songs until he can't stomach being there any longer and excuses himself as politely as he can, thanking Harry and Louis profusely for the ticket. Considering he can feel the upset painted all over his face, he doesn't even worry about coming off as rude for leaving before the show's halfway through. Thankfully, each is understanding, and when Liam gets home, he's exceptionally grateful Niall's already retired for the night; it's straight through the door and towards his own room for Liam too, not so much as a glance in the police scanner's direction.

In bed, ready to sleep off his concern, Liam hesitates on putting his phone down after setting his alarm. His eyes strain against the screen's bright light, Zayn's contact info staring back at him. Above the man's name there's a photo that Liam took himself. It's from the evening they spent perusing the aisles of Zayn's choice bookshop. He'd gone off to get them a water, only to find Zayn sitting criss crossed, hunched over a random historical fiction mystery when he came back. It wasn't until Liam was crouched down in front of him that Zayn looked up, and even then, Liam predicted it was only because he hadn't expected for it to be Liam, but rather another customer that he was ready to banish from his space. There, two feet off the ground, Liam took the picture.

His thumb wavers between the call and the text icon. The last thing he wants to come across is overbearing, yet he still refuses to go to sleep without letting the other know he's thinking about him. In the end, he goes with a text.

**I'm here to talk if you want or not to if you don't want. Hope you're feeling better and you were able to get rid of the taste of those rubbish sweets from your mouth. I brushed twice and my tongue still tingles**

For five minutes, Liam keeps the messaging thread open waiting to see if he'll get a response, but no three dots ever show themselves.

Staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, Liam really wishes he was like Harry and could turn off his emotional need to help people at the snap of a finger.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

"It's a real shame."

Zayn cuts his daydreaming short at the sound of the thick Italian accent. When he doesn't respond straight away, the old man points to the newspaper in Zayn's hands, the one he's been staring at since walking over with his thermos a few minutes ago. Its headline reads: **Five South London police stations set ablaze overnight**.

"Says they haven't got a clue who did it," Mr. Abramo adds.

Underneath the emboldened words is a photo of what's left of one station: charred walls, a sign stating its assigned borough burnt to a crisp, and the buildings on either side scarred by black stripes where the flames had licked teasingly. A rush of adrenaline races through Zayn's body at the memory.

"You haven't been sleeping again."

After folding the paper in half, Zayn stuffs it under his arm, taking a drink from his thermos with the notion that the coffee's scalding temperature will give him the pinch of focus he needs to adequately address the shopkeeper; he's got his entire commute to reminisce on the previous night.

"I was busy," Zayn replies with the hope that it'll placate the old man, but he's not ignorant and knows better.

"Working?"

_In a way_ , Zayn thinks to himself.

"No, I've just had a lot on my mind."

The early morning clouds start to shift, and with it, the sun shines through. Zayn side steps so his shadow can eliminate Mr. Abramo's need to squint while staring up at him from his chair.

"Thank you," the man says, dropping his hand that was acting as a temporary visor. "Maybe if you got better rest, you wouldn't choose such ugly socks."

They both look down at the blue and white striped material that's visible around the edges of Zayn's black leather loafers.

"I'll agree that maybe I should've chosen black or grey," Zayn offers, "but I'm not saying they're ugly."

"Zayn, I'm from Italy." The younger male inhales deeply as he prepares himself for what's to follow, humoured smirk on his lips. "No one knows fashion like us. We are the fashion capital of the world. Listen to me, they are ugly. And to go with such fine Italian leather?" The man shakes his head at the catastrophe.

"Who said these are Italian?"

Lifting up his right sole, Zayn simply waits for the speech on betrayal that he's knowingly provoked. It comes in a unique blend of English and Italian, none of which Zayn pays attention to; his eyes are scanning the other international papers spread out on the table in front of him.

"What happened to your friend?" Zayn intervenes once he's finished surveying the shop's daily selection and is ready for a new topic before taking off for work. When he sees Mr. Abramo's confusion in the midst of his cool down, he points to where a brown SUV's taken the spot of a specific Mercedes.

A satisfied smile that only a proud racist could have spreads across Mr. Abramo's face. "The Frenchy moved. I was pleased because he hadn't come around for a while, but I had my wife make a special batch of Sicilian cannolis to celebrate the day the moving truck came and took the car with it."

It's a little overkill, but Zayn doesn't put it past the man. Maybe if he mentioned it was his doing, the banishing of the pretentious foreigner, he could land a box of homemade cannolis for himself.

"Well I'm glad you can sit in peace now," he smiles, taking a few steps back to signal his departure. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"You will," Mr. Abramo agrees, "but hopefully you'll be wearing nicer socks."

As he walks away, Zayn glances down at his socks. They're really not that bad, and when he's stuck looking at the floor of the Tube car he's in later, other people's mismatched and beaten up socks staring back at him, he sticks by his opinion.

The lift ride up to his floor's the first time he's been able to reopen the newspaper that's been shoved under his arm for the past forty minutes. His eyes sweep over the words with lightning speed, ignoring the people who come and go from the compartmentalized space.

They're looking for a serial arsonist. Zayn's not surprised. When he used his criss cross pattern tattoo as fire kindling, he had no doubt that the final destruction of each station would point to that type of a manhunt. With the only evidence and point of origin seared into the back of Zayn's right calf, the individual investigations are bound to become cold cases in a matter of weeks. As soon as they realize the only thing all five fires have in common are a lack of spark source and the borough they fall in, the next spectacle worth solving will win their attention.

At his desk, Zayn opens the paper further to where the article continues on page three, a generic map on the bottom right corner detailing the route police estimate the arsonist(s) took to be as efficient as they had been. They've calculated the amount of time it might've taken the person to drive from building to building for those in the area to recall if they remember any suspicious activity around that hour of the night, but what they've failed to take into consideration is flying through abandoned side streets as a method of transportation.

Zayn can thank the seedy nature of South London for allowing him to feel confident enough to sport his wings, no black track suit or mask necessary. The short flights from one police station to the next weren't the smoothest Zayn's ever maneuvered, but he couldn't help it. There was no room for maintaining stability, his mind was too inundated with traumatizing flashbacks of his last six months in Pakistan. But it was one above them all that can be to blame for the piles of ashes splayed across the news.

_Ten minutes ago the house phone rang. Ever since, Zayn's father hasn't stopped moving in and out of the rooms of their home. If it weren't for his mother's incessant crying that she was doing her best to hide by wrapping her head scarf over her nose and mouth, the nine year old wouldn't think anything bad was about to happen. No one's confirmed his suspicions that the tension clouding the living room where he's sat with his homework is a negative thing, but he can feel it. Deep in his spine, he can feel it._

_"Baba?"_

_Zayn watches as his little sister is carried out into the open space by their father. She wipes at her eyes, blinking heavily when she's placed down next to Zayn, trying to make sense of why she's just been woken up from sleep so soon after being put down and why her father didn't respond to his title before returning to their shared bedroom._

_"Ammi, what's going on?"_

_The woman however, doesn't ignore her daughter. She kneels to the ground, bringing both children as close to her chest as possible amidst tears and tremors that shake her body like she's been up to the mountains when it's snowed in nothing other than the thin, embroidered tunic and shalwar she's currently wearing. It's an awkward position for Zayn, but he does his best to return the hug, rubbing what he can of her back to help soothe the only way he knows how. Embracing her children this desperately twists Zayn's stomach more than it already is, and by the way her walls come down, hysterics finally winning over, he can feel that it's doing the same for her._

_The familiar sting that signals imminent tears start to form behind Zayn's eyes. He's not sure why he's crying, only that the longer his mother holds him, the more her fear transfers onto him. And it's in that moment that Zayn learns an important life lesson: pure terror of the unknown is secretly the deepest fright of them all._

_"Zayn, Walihya, change into these."_

_When his mother lets go enough for Zayn to wiggle free, he can see that his father's brought out a change of clothes for both him and his sister. They're something each might wear in the middle of winter. It's April._

_"Come on, hurry up," the man rushes, taking the pajamas from his children as they come off and folding them into the small bag he brought out with the winter ensembles; it barely passes as luggage, more like an oversized briefcase that zipped closed._

_Like with his mother, Zayn adopts his father's hasty energy. As quickly as he shucks off his trousers, he puts on the thick jumper and jacket that's laid out for him. Amid the blur of clothing, the contents of the luggage stands out; it's an even split between each sibling's belongings. Shoes, shirts, prayer rugs. On Zayn's side, a couple of his favourite books, on Waliyha's, her prized stuffed tiger._

_"Where are we going?" Zayn asks, the inside of the suitcase disappearing from his line of sight once his father closes it with one speedy zip._

_In the corner of the room sits Zayn's backpack. His father darts over to retrieve it, bringing it back over to where his mother's now tying his sister's shoes tightly for her._

_"On a trip," the man replies, kissing the five year old's head before instructing her to go say goodbye to her grandfather in the other room._

_"Where?"_

_Zayn's voice is barely audible above the noise that comes from his father shuffling the papers that came out with him from the kitchen after taking the call that launched him into a frenzy. They look like forms, but Zayn can't say for sure._

_"England."_

_Suddenly, all the anxiety that Zayn had piled on himself in the past few minutes is erased. His eyes light up at his dream of being able to visit an English speaking country coming true. "Right now?" He asks, bursting with excitement the more his father's actions are all starting to make sense._

_"Yes, but I need you to look at me." That uneasy feeling creeps back into Zayn's lean frame, so he does as he's told, hoping that it'll go away again. "These papers," the man points to the stapled sheets that are now neatly tucked away in a light brown folder, "are very, very important. They have information about where you're from and about all the doctors visits you and your sisters have been to. And you remember when we took both of you to have your pictures taken?" Zayn nods, looking down at where the resulting photos are cut into small squares, multiple copies present. "You can't lose anything in here. Do you understand? They won't let you in the country if you don't have all of it."_

_Zayn's eyes roll up from the documents, to his father's, confused. "Why don't you keep it?"_

_The folder gets shoved into Zayn's backpack, the corners just barely fitting inside once the zipper's closed. Again, the mood shifts, this time to something heavier than before. His father's body has gone lax, but not in the same way it slouches in relief when the man's full off his dinner. To Zayn, it comes off as if he's given up a fight, the one responsible for his tornado-like mania._

_"The day you were born," the man starts in a leaden tone, "after all the nurses and doctors left the room, I made a promise to your mother. And you." Zayn looks up from staring at the green laces on his trainers to find his father watching him closely, as if he's envisioning the nine year old as a newborn right then and there. "That no matter what, I would keep you safe. I didn't care what that would take, but I would do it. Money, my life, nothing would be too much."_

_In the background, Zayn can hear his other family members' voices, but neither him, nor his father pay them any heed; this tale's more important than the one being made in the moment._

_"It's not safe in Pakistan," the man continues, "especially here in Quetta after the plane attack in America last September. You and your sister are going to go to England on your own. It's all we can afford right now."_

_Hearing the truth behind what's happening leaves Zayn with a huge pain in his chest. He wonders if this is what it's like to get shot. He's seen enough men in Afghan and Pakistani garb take a bullet on the news over the past few months to ask himself, what sort of agony comes from having a pointed tube of lead pierce a person's skin? This. This ache in his gut, his heart, his soul, his emotional core. This is what it's like to be shot with words._

_"The man who runs the corner store, Badar? He's going to take you and Waliyha in his van with a few other kids."_

_Immediately, Zayn puts a face to the name his father has mentioned. It's not one he can forget, he sees it every morning when he gets his grandfather's newspapers. The store owner's always been kind to him, slipping Zayn a piece of candy once or twice a week with a friendly smile. But knowing his chaperone doesn't ease Zayn's anguish, the tears keep steadily falling._

_"Ammi, Nana, and I are going to stay here until I can save up enough money for us to join you. I used up everything we have to get you two a spot in that car."_

_Reaching out, the man lifts Zayn up and places him in his lap, wiping the little boy's tears as they come._

_"Look here," he says, unzipping the front pocket on Zayn's backpack. "Right after you started going to school, I began saving for you to go to university. I knew you weren't going to be like me, fixing air conditioners forever. Even at five, you showed signs that with that incredible brain of yours, you're bound to make something of yourself one day." With the hand that isn't holding Zayn close, he retrieves an envelope fit for a letter, but is too full to seal properly. Pulling back the flap reveals more cash than Zayn's ever seen in his life._

_"I'm sorry that I've had to spend it on this, but I promise you, as soon as we're all back together in England, I'll start saving again." The promise is said with such immense passion that Zayn has no choice but to believe it._

_"This is what's left, and I'm giving it to you to pay for whatever you and your sister need to get to England safely. I've already paid for your passports, Badar has them. Don't go buying anything unnecessary, only food and new clothes in case yours get ruined. Save as much of it as you can. It's going to be a long trip, at least a week, maybe two."_

_Zayn doesn't know what to say, he's shocked silent. The only noises that come from him are the steadying breaths and hiccups that jolt his body violently after every round of torment hits him._

_"It's your turn to be a man now Zayn," his father declares firmly. "I'm not worried about your sister because I know you're responsible enough to take care of her. I've raised you to be brave, haven't I?"_

_Zayn nods obediently, but he doesn't do a very good job at proving the words to be true when he buries his face into his father's neck. There's solace hidden in the man's cologne, his prickly beard, his warm skin that Zayn holds on to as desperately as he can, tries not to think about how he won't be able to feel the rumble his deep voice makes this close._

_"Trust me beta, if there was another way, I would make it happen." Zayn can feel a kiss be pressed to the top of his hair. "We didn't think you'd leave for a few more weeks, but Badar got a call from his friend at the border and said tonight's the best to cross. He has a visa to get into the UK, so you're going to stay with him and the family he has there until I can get visas for us three adults."_

_"How long-" A particularly violent hiccup causes Zayn to jerk, his words pausing for a split second because of it. "How long will that take?"_

_"I won't lie to you," his father sighs. "I don't know. People say there might be a war, which will make things even harder, but I don't want you here if that happens. I don't care if I have to sell the clothes off my back, I'll find a way to bring our family together again. I promise you. And I always keep my promises, don't I?" He nudges Zayn gently for a confirmation, the small boy nodding silently in response before gripping the man's light cotton work shirt, convincing himself the harder he clings, the less likely the promise would be needed._

_He's hoisted up from that position and brought into his bedroom where his sister's startled to see her older brother so distraught; it's clear she's yet to be briefed on the real purpose of their travels, still running off visceral fear from their mother, who hasn't let up on her crying. In an attempt to cheer both females up, his father suggests that they both join him in the living room to braid the little one's hair quickly._

_Instead of reeling in the sadness of being placed onto his grandfather's mattress and out of his father's arms, Zayn merely switches his clutch to the even older man._

_Carefully, Zayn's grandfather leans over the trembling body on his right to where a short tower of books separates his and Zayn's beds. "I want you to have something." He takes the one on top and lets gravity spread it open in his palm. The pages give way to a thick piece of cardstock. "This is one of the invitations to my wedding. It makes for a much nicer bookmark than a napkin or newspaper clipping. Your Nani loved henna and mandalas so much that she wanted our invitations covered in them." Prying his face out from the man's side, Zayn wipes his eyes so he can witness the faded white card with clear vision._

_Around the tattered edges are elegant black lattices, crisscrossing beautifully and meeting at each corner where every point acts like the center of a flower with intricately shaped leaves sprouting out. Tiny lines made up of dots and random patterns separate each sector of information._

_"She drew each by hand, even though I told her that was far too much work for one person." Without warning, the man opens the square pocket on the front of Zayn's jacket, folds the invitation in half, and sticks it inside. "I know you never met her, but she was wonderful, the light of my life. She was looking forward to having grandchildren one day." He pushes the snap on the pocket until it produces a sharp sound that proves the memory safe. "It's one of my most prized possessions. And now, it's yours."_

_The feather-light weight burns a hole through Zayn's outer layer._

_"One day, you'll fall in love and marry a girl who will be the light of your life. Until then, you can use this as a bookmark like I've been doing, because I know that you're going to always be reading. Right?" Whether or not the question's meant to be a passive aggressive demand, Zayn still nods. "God really has blessed you with a clever mind, don't let it go to waste."_

_Both stay quiet, and while Zayn can't stand hearing the finality in his elders' voices, he'd rather his grandfather keep speaking just to have something to listen to, to remember other than the muffled sounds of his mother's distress; even the city soundtrack is blank, only those who are looking for a death wish, be it through coming into contact with illegal circles roaming the streets or getting harrassed by the Americans in uniform who patrol all other roads, are out at this hour of the night nowadays._

_"I love you Zayn."_

_The sentiment cuts through the air as sharply as it does the last of Zayn's steadiness._

_"I love you too Nana."_

_A hand at the back of Zayn's head brings him closer to the man's chest, allowing for a prolonged kiss, before it nudges the boy forward. "Go on then."_

_Reluctantly, Zayn obeys, collapsing into his mother's awaiting arms as soon as he enters the living room one last time. She alternates between reciting prayers despairingly and weeping, although most of the time it's a mess of both. There's something about seeing his mother break down like this, beg for God to protect her children because she can't, kiss Zayn's wet cheeks, his lips, his hair, his ears, like her own life depended on it, that forces the lodged dagger in his heart deeper._

_In an odd turn of events, Zayn starts to feel guilty, like this is his doing - bringing his mother to her current level of hysteria, inconsolable. And when one of **her** parents, brittle and unable to hide his own despondency, shows himself under the room's archway, beckoning for the woman to join him so she can act like a child too, Zayn snaps._

_"I don't want to go, I want to stay," he proclaims after he's picking himself up off the floor to follow his mother's retreating figure, wiping his running nose along his coat sleeve in one long pass. "I've changed my dream! I don't want to speak English somewhere else, I want to stay here."_

_"Zayn."_

_One glance back from where he's reclaimed purchase on his mother's body allows for Zayn to see, not just hear, how serious his father is. In his arms, the man's struggling to hold Waliyha as she puts up a fight for being held back from joining Zayn at their mother's side. He's trying not to get frustrated and raise his voice, the little boy can tell._

_"Zayn, lets go," he says, jaw clenched as he does his best to not drop his daughter, but her kicking and squirming is making it tough._

_"Listen to him," Zayn's grandfather says, garnering his grandson's attention. "He knows what's best."_

_Zayn holds far too much respect for his grandfather to go against his orders, so he starts the walk to the front door where his backpack and joint suitcase are waiting, but it's more of an awkward dance as he refuses to let go of his mother the whole way there. It isn't until his father's done putting Waliyha in his work truck and has their bags thrown into the back that Zayn's finally pried off the woman for good._

_His brain may be robust, but his emotions aren't, and in this moment of weakness, Zayn can't find the strength to hold himself back from turning around to stare out the cab window until his eyes strain from trying to keep track of which house in the distance is his. Somehow, he's strong enough to contain his tears during the drive, probably since his sister can't and setting a calm atmosphere is as close to helping as he can in such a paralyzed state._

_Because that's what this feels like: numbing. It's voluntarily smashing himself up against the passenger side door so he can feel something touch him, even if it's cold metal, watching his four square kilometers of Quetta zoom by. When the capital sprawls more than two hundred square kilometers in total, it's an insignificant patch of neighborhood, but to Zayn, it's home. He's roamed its streets after school and during the summer like he was king and the invisible boundaries that his parents had set for him were the perimeters to his kingdom. He does his best to block out the possibility that this is the last time he might ever see his favourite park equipped with a cricket field, or the old spice market that his mother loved to frequent that's now a barber; but not the one the males in his household use, that's two blocks East with blue painted iron rodding as its door._

_When they park and the truck rolls back a full meter before the emergency brake sets, Zayn's actually a little relieved the route to Badar's house didn't require them having to pass his beloved bookshop._

_On the walk up the driveway, they pass a black, industrial van. It lacks any writing over the paint job, though it's not hard to imagine that in a past life it acted as some sort of company vehicle for a labour intensive job like his father's, no windows on its sides._

_Inside the home, Zayn continues to hold his tears back. It's acceptable to cry in front of his family, but to do it in front of strangers, even if they were close friends of his parents, would be inappropriate._

_The house is neat, homey, much like Zayn would expect for a family who owned a small business. However, he's surprised there aren't more pieces of furniture in the living room he, his father, sister, and Badar himself are congregating in. Even if there was, Zayn wouldn't trade his spot shoved up against his father's right arm for any leather sofa._

_Waliyha's crying hasn't stopped, but to Zayn's relief, and he's sure his father's too, she's stopped wailing, it's more of a constant sniffling now. For what it's worth, he holds her hand tightly as they listen to their father speak to the other man, their caretaker for the foreseeable future. They talk payment, confirming that it's already been made, and the reassurance that the plan they've discussed is the one that's about to be put into motion. Zayn's father's voice hardly shows any sign of emotion, though he does insist on seeing the passports Badar's had made up._

_The light green leather and golden words 'ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF PAKISTAN' is something Zayn's only dreamed of. His picture on various pages alongside select European tourist visas, the different flags and blank pages that give hope to a future of travel. It's what every person in a developing country wishes for their entire lives. And yet with it in his hands, all he can see is the opposite of freedom._

_Once the passports are returned back to Badar, Zayn feels an arm squeeze his torso. "I love you both more than you'll ever know," his father comforts with his head bowed so each child at his side can hear him. "And I'll see you soon, ok?"_

_His father's much better at hiding the resolution in his voice than his grandfather, so it must be merely hearing that they'll be apart at all that triggers Waliyha's next fit._

_"No!" she shouts, practically climbing into the man's lap, completely disregarding her brother._

_"It's alright, no need to cry." The hand that was around Zayn's ribs pulls away to administer small up and down motions along the girl's spine. "Badar will keep you safe, and Zayn's never going to leave your side. You'll call me as soon as you get there, ok?"_

_The promise doesn't seem to do much and it takes Badar pulling Waliyha off her father when it's clear things aren't going to get any easier the longer they stay in that position for Zayn to realize this is it._

_He wants to make his father proud, be as much of a man as he's capable of being, so he holds off from any theatrics and pours all his energy into squeezing the life out of the man. Because for all he knows, two weeks could turn into two months. There's no way they'd be separated for any longer than that; his father wouldn't let that happen._

_"Take care of yourself Zayn, and don't let anything happen to Waliyha."_

_Considering his death grip, Zayn doubts his father can even register the nod he gives as his answer._

_"When I see you again, you better be giving speeches in English all across London."_

_The tears Zayn's so desperately trying to hold back start to stain the man's light cotton work shirt. It only worsens when he hears the tender, "I love you"._

_"Remember that this is for you to have a better life," his father says stoically. "Sometimes we have to endure things we don't want to in order to be able to do the things we do. I promise you, this isn't for nothing."_

_One final kiss is placed on his head before Zayn feels himself be pushed away gently._

_Waliyha's cries would normally bother him to no end, but as he stands and watches his father leave the house, the wailing is white noise. Even if Badar didn't have a hold on her, Zayn wouldn't do his part to help, he's in his own world, transfixed on the image of his one and only father, walking down the short driveway to his truck._

_Then, something just hits him. Like a second round of bullets pummelling into his body. And knowing full well he's not going to survive that much ammunition, he figures he might as well go out with a bang._

_He doesn't feel his hand undo the lock or the coarseness of the unevenly paved driveway under his socks after bursting through the front door, or even the powerful crash of bodies that's a result of his sprint coming to an abrupt end._

_"Don't go!" He yells, clamoring to grab any part of his father's clothing that will keep him attached the longest. "Please! Please Baba, don't leave! Take us home, please!"_

_"Zayn," his father warns, "don't act like this. I told you why you need to be the ones to move first."_

_At this point, Zayn doesn't care what he looks or sounds like. His anxiety's gone through the roof at not feeling any arms around him._

_"Please!" He exclaims between choked sobs. "I'll do anything, just don't make me go!"_

_For a second, it seems like he's won and putting up a childish fight has worked in his favour when he feels his feet leave the ground and arms encompass his scrawny frame. But as soon as he hears his father's stern "be brave" and notices they're walking in the opposite direction of the truck, his panic's back._

_"Baba!"_

_Someone at the front door puts their hands under his arms and tries to pull him away, but Zayn tightens his grip on the back of the button up, his knuckles nearly white at the effort._

_"Baba, please!"_

_Whoever's behind him tugs hard and Zayn's ripped from safety, almost tearing the thin material in his wake._

_He reaches out, but the door's shut in his face. Unlike Waliyha, he knows how to use what minimal meat he has on his bones to his advantage, so he elbows the person who's got a hold on him and plasters himself against the front window after nearly being dropped._

_The truck's back lights come to life, changing from red to white almost immediately. As a last ditch effort, before the car can pull away, Zayn takes a deep breath and yells at the top of his lungs, "Baba!"_

_But his shrill voice doesn't make a difference, the tires start to roll off Badar's property and into the empty street._

_Sucking in a loud gulp of air, Zayn wails once more, to get it out of his system more than he thinks his father will hear his name through the thick glass that's now dirtied from where his small fists are pounding in an effort to make himself as known as possible; above them are smears of tears and mucus._

_It only takes his body less than a minute after the truck drives out of view to give in to the exhaustion of such an immediate adrenaline rush. He goes to collapse onto the nearby polyester sofa, but only makes it halfway, knees hitting the carpet, face smashing into the brown cushion._

_All he can do is cry. And cry and cry and cry. Until eventually, the crying stops coming from a place of hurt and starts to rise from a growing ball of rage._

_For the terrorists who have picked his city as the one to use for crossing Pakistan's southern border. Why couldn't they go up to the Northern territories like the rest of the radicals?_

_For the racist attacks on secular groups, and how pathetic it is that it's not enough people need to look over their shoulders for terrorists, but now law-abiding citizens who weren't of the major faith couldn't trust their own shadows._

_For the Americans who came to his country and are pretending like they have the right to take over Pakistani land. As if they're doing it to help the locals get a hold on terrorism, and not ramping up the unrest like they were really doing. Making fun of Zayn's traditions, religion, and language along the way._

_For how extremists shouldn't even exist, period. Because if their backwards ideology wasn't taught, then children like him wouldn't need to feel any of its repercussions. Wouldn't need to be shoved under a secret compartment of an ex-company van's floorboard with his sister and four other girls who Zayn pegged as the same age as Waliyha._

_But most of all, he's livid at every leader, every authority figure, every person in a position of power around the world for making his father have no choice but to send his children into the night with nothing but faith that they'll find shelter in a place that their home - the one location that should be synonymous with the word shelter - couldn't provide._

_Eventually the all encompassing hate eliminated the need to cry altogether, and resulted in a dangerously quiet disposition that fully sunk in once Zayn and the rest of the kids were told to stay silent after cramming their small bodies into the hidden, manmade chamber before leaving the house. Bizarrely, the anger helped dispel the chance of Zayn giving away his whereabouts with any useless crying when they got to the border and were ordered to keep quiet. Though he did blame the sheer magnitude of what they were doing for shutting him up and giving him the ability to endure the pain that came from contorting his arm to put a hand over Waliyha's mouth as well._

_It's once they successfully cross the Afghan border and are allowed out of the subdivision after hours, able to stretch and sit in the back area of the van that's covered in only a dusty rug and one case of belongings per child, that Zayn's anger starts to rise above all other emotions again._

_He holds his and Waliyha's luggage bag close to his chest to have something to constrict, something to expel his energy onto, only letting up when the little girl, who's taken to sitting pressed up against his side, asks if she can have her tiger; her crying's subsided, presumably due to exhaustion more so than the notion she's gotten over being separated from her parents._

_They drive into the night for a while. Without a watch or the sun's place in the sky to use as a reference, Zayn can't tell exactly how long it's been, but his best guess is somewhere between an hour or two. No light means he hasn't even been able to read to pass the time, only fight sleep and sit alone with his thoughts, which hasn't ever been a scary thing for Zayn until now. But it's got nothing on the terror that shocks his body awake when a car, two or three in front of theirs, explodes._

_It feels like the van is lifted off the ground at the same time as Zayn hears that piercing shriek he's become used to hearing from the random bombings throughout his hometown for the past eight months. However, none have ever been this loud. The van starts to shake and with Zayn's sense of hearing nearly eliminated, his others are heightened, allowing for him to register that the rocking back and forth is from Badar diverting them off the paved road and onto the bare ground of the Afghan desert. All of the girls have huddled together near Waliyha, as if the person she's clinging to will save them as well, but they all drop down, flat on the floor, to take cover as soon as artillery rounds start to go off in their close proximity._

_Immediately, Zayn blankets himself over his sister's body, not taking into consideration that he might be suffocating her, all he cares about is keeping her safe from bullets; she'll learn to take shallow breaths if need be._

_There's a heavy jacket on each of them, but there's no way Waliyha can't feel the way his heart's beating out of his chest, pushing against his skin, ready to burst free thanks to the steady popping noises of magazines emptying that his hearing's tuning back into. Along with the familiar sounds of grenades detonating, Zayn's no longer a stranger to what the occasional gunshot sounds like at night, waking him up in a flurry, but those have always been one-offs. Never did it sound like the shooter was on top of him, forget a team of them._

_He keeps his head down low while Badar's foot stays on the gas and speeds through the rural community surrounding the main highway. Between the sounds of the tires hurtling over the rocky ground and shrapnels whizzing past the van, not even a meter from any of their bodies, Zayn doesn't let his mind fill with any thoughts other than the sounds of his mother's prayers. The same ones she said not even five hours ago, probably never actually thinking that her children would ever need such protection._

_An unexpected surge of bravery comes over Zayn when the girls' cries blend together and the constant woodpecker sounds of automatic weapons going off don't stop after several minutes. He wants to see what things look like._

_Slowly, he lifts his head up, just enough that he can see above the windscreen._

_From his low vantage point, it's hard to see much, but there's a red and orange hue that's lighting up the night sky. Fire. As if on cue, Zayn can feel a pulsing heat radiating off the car's metal walls and making him almost instantly sweat through his coat that's ironically meant to be the thing that keeps him warm in the cold desert nights. But the temperature vamps up even higher when a bright flash of white practically blinds Zayn a millisecond before another seismic explosion uproots the van like it's a toy matchbox being played with by a kid from the West who's capable of thinking up a game like this without feeling guilty._

_He'll find a small welt on his forehead in the morning from how hard it slammed against the van's floor in his instinctive reaction to being petrified. Somehow, it's the only injury any of them get that night. Unless having to fall asleep with the smell of a stranger's urine in your nose counts as an injury, then Zayn got that too._

Standing in front of the copy room Xerox machine, waiting for his latest edits to print, Zayn's mind deviates from the trauma like it usually does whenever he's forced to relive the memory so vividly, and switches to wondering if the terror he felt throughout that night was equal to Yusuf's when his secular mosque was shot up only a month after Zayn had gone up and introduced himself. It's a shame he'll never be able to ask him. Or visit his grave. It's even more of a shame that those twenty, maybe thirty minutes where Zayn swore he saw his life constantly flash before his eyes, were only precursors to the greater hell that awaited him.

He hardly blinks before snatching the full two hundred page draft immediately after the last page is expelled onto one of the machine's side trays. Checking over his shoulder to make sure he's alone, Zayn takes one sip off the top of his coffee that's still piping hot, and then pours it straight onto the copier.

"Jackie." The receptionist at the front desk looks up when Zayn's walking past her and towards the lift with his things five minutes later. "The printer's broken and I can't work without it," he says unsuspectingly. "Tell Sarah I'm ahead with the pirate book by three days. I'm going to finish from home."

He doesn't wait for a reply, simply slides into the lift as soon as the door opens and steps into the empty back corner so he's not even in her line of sight.

Except, he doesn't go home. He winds up in front of the Royal Phoenix Community Centre in Kings Cross.

The inside's a lot nicer than Zayn anticipated. Not that he knew what to expect walking in, he hasn't ever been inside a community centre before. When you grow up on the salaries of a psychologist and insurance broker, why would you ever need to?

Behind the welcome desk, a woman in her late thirties smiles warmly at him and most likely asks how she can be of help. All Zayn can go by is the movement of her lips since he's got his headphones on as a means to block out his grim thoughts. There's no way she can't hear the music blasting through them, so she really shouldn't be all that surprised that Zayn ignores her completely and continues walking further.

The place is packed. Just as many people are lined up against the stone countertop where food's being served as there are sitting down to eat at the dining table fit for a medieval king or queen. They all look so young, most likely twenty, plus or minus a year, yet at the same time, every single one looks like they've already lived through a lifetime worth of stress. Through patchy, unkempt beards, to makeup that looks like it was applied days ago, there's a silent thread of respectful understanding that Zayn can feel just by being in their presence: how could we possibly judge each other when we've all hit rock bottom simultaneously?

His legs guide him to the front of the food line in order to get a closer look at what's being served straight from the pots the food's been cooked in. Braised chicken thighs glisten in their juices next to a vat of white rice and steamed vegetables. There's a smaller cauldron of some type of soup, the vegetarian option Zayn learns when he puts his headphones around his neck and hears one of the visitors request the meat-free option for the day.

Adjusting to the noises of the room again after having been tuned out from reality for the past twenty minutes takes longer than Zayn anticipates, and because of it, when he hears his name being called out, his shoulders jolt in alarm.

Liam's face drops from curious excitement, to pure guilt when he witnesses how just saying Zayn's name startles him.

"Sorry," he apologizes, taking several slow steps forward, which only makes Zayn want to tell Liam to quit acting like he's a house of cards. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood." Zayn's shrug seems to relax the other back to normal. "Thought I'd drop by and see where you worked. Maybe take you out to lunch."

"Oh, I usually have lunch here," Liam replies, grinning when an alternative idea comes to mind. "You're welcome to join, it's free."

"I don't want to take from kids who need it more than I do."

"They're not kids," Liam corrects, "they're young adults."

The one time Zayn's overtly charitable and it gets overlooked.

"If they're younger than me, they're kids," he says pointedly, watching, waiting to see how the younger man plans to counter Zayn's semi-true statement.

He doesn't, just looks down at the brown satchel hanging from Zayn's right shoulder and resets. "Right," he exhales, "well that's nice of you."

So maybe his good deed for the day wasn't for nothing.

After humming in response, Zayn then raises his eyebrows in expectation. "So, do you want to go or?"

Liam's eyes move from the stack of papers in his hand to where several professional desks are set up to his right, and back around the bustling room. "Yeah," he nods, looking Zayn in the eye. "Yeah, let me just put these down and let Angela know I'm leaving."

While he waits, Zayn surveys the "young adults" once more before he realizes it might come off as voyeuristic, and sticks to reading the weekly timetable of activities written in white on the nearest wall that's been transformed into a massive chalkboard. Job training, housing meetings, exercise classes, it's dizzying just to look at. For that reason, and because without his headphones on, the surrounding commotion's a decibel level he's not going to subject himself to, Zayn chooses to wait for Liam outside.

"Cool headphones." The male's voice startles Zayn for a second time, taking him by surprise when he's trying to make space for said headphones in his rectangular bag given that he can't exactly return them to the miniature robot on his forearm being this out in the open. "What's the brand? I've never seen that logo."

On the surface of one ear cushion's steel exterior is the letter "Z", its bottom line crossing through a capital "M".

"I don't know what the brand is," Zayn lies, aggressively pushing the sound equipment into his bag and not thinking twice about what papers he's smashing by doing so. "I just bought them online one day. Got bored and etched in my initials."

"Nice." When he's left with no reply, only the sign to start walking, Liam tries, "How are you?"

"Cold," Zayn returns, stuffing his hands into his puffy down jacket, then extending his left elbow out for the man to take like Zayn knows he loves to do. Sure enough, he bites.

"You didn't return my text."

Zayn doesn't need a reminder, he's fully aware of his conscious effort to avoid speaking about his disappearing act the night before.

"It's been known to happen," he mumbles.

"Not with me." The arm that Liam's looped his through and is grasping, receives a gentle tug. "You always return my texts."

Along the main road they're walking parallel with, an ambulance rushes by, its blaring sirens gifting Zayn a way out from having to explain the real reason behind his silent reaction. Even if the option wasn't there to bank on the misfortune of others, he would've come up with something to fill the gap. Liam's gravely mistaken if he thinks Zayn's anywhere close to admitting something as monumental as feeling embarrassed for not being able to keep his PTSD under control at times. And that's in addition to confessing his real motive behind the night's change in plans: see if his brother would approve of this new person Zayn can't stop talking about.

When the emergency calls for the ambulance to make a sharp right down the next street, Liam eliminates the need for Zayn to search for the next best admission.

"I want you to be comfortable talking to me about whatever's in your head," he says earnestly. "I help people for a living. I'll handle anything you say with care."

They're so mindful and sincere, Liam's words. Almost said with the kind of wisdom that Harry speaks with whenever Zayn forces him into a fake therapy session, laying things out in simple enough terms for the average person to understand. In that sense, Zayn's taken by how much Liam truly cares. For him as Zayn, or a person that has some sort of ailment (Harry had briefed him that morning on the lack of details passed on to the unsuspecting soul walking next to him), it didn't matter. Liam's got a soul far larger than Zayn could've ever dreamt. And if that isn't reason enough for him to be worth Zayn trying to make this work, then nothing ever would be.

When they reach the end of the sidewalk, the crosswalk sign turns red, perfect timing for Zayn to face Liam and get him to see that the small "ok" he gives as his reply, isn't as simple as it sounds. It's said with an expression void of any sarcasm or placation, only seriousness that proves that the younger male's words haven't just been shoved to the side.

Liam takes his time searching Zayn's eyes, for a crack perhaps. A loophole that will render the sincerity false and nothing but an act to win Liam over for the foreseeable future. But when he comes up short, the only thing out of order in Zayn's stare being the right freckle that's connected to his hazel iris, he breathes easy.

"Ok," he agrees, sealing their secret pact with the most infectious of smiles.

Another siren moves in closer, this time, from a fire engine. Before it reaches them, Liam unhooks his arm from Zayn's and pulls out his phone. "I really hope it's not another police station. Some of those are historical landmarks." Zayn nearly snorts at _that_ being the thing Liam's worried about. "People who enforce the law are the last who deserve to be wronged."

Biting the inside of his cheek's the only way Zayn can keep himself from saying what he so desperately wants about how authoritative collectives, no matter the faction, are _exactly_ who deserve to be wronged. Especially the ones in the West where the righteous privileged are the ones to police the ignorantly privileged. What an insult to the real issues of the world.

As soon as the crosswalk turns green, Zayn nudges Liam forward. "Get off that," he warns when they're in the middle of the street and Liam's yet to look up from his phone. Searching social media for information on what might be the reason for such a fuss in the middle of a Monday, so Zayn can see when he takes his eyes away from watching the traffic around them to keep Liam safe.

"No idiot would try to pull off an arson in broad daylight. Trust me," he says, stepping onto the curb, "you can do a lot more without having all eyes on you in the night."

* * *

**L**

* * *

Three weeks into living together, Niall brought it to Liam's attention that being called hardworking isn't always a good thing. They were meant to go out somewhere, a pub most likely, but Liam cancelled right as Niall gathered by the door citing his need to revise as the reason why. Before being left to his own devices, he was given a stern warning: "The motto 'work hard, play hard' isn't one you can claim to live by if you leave out the 'play hard' part". At the time, Liam had dismissed the token of advice, chalking it up to Niall not understanding how crucial it was for Liam to do well at university and justify the hell he put himself through keeping up side jobs to stay afloat in London's black ocean. Not everyone was lucky enough to be paid to gain real world experience through a salaried internship. But a month later, when Liam was so exhausted from his twenty hour days that he slept through one of his morning lectures, he decided to finally practice what he preached and take life a little slower. Or, at least, as slow as his wallet would allow.

Nowadays, his life's a lot less hectic, really only a push and pull between doing what he could to keep London's streets safe, and accomplishing as much as humanly possible in his position at the centre.

No more police station's have caught fire since Sunday night, and just as much as that's a win for society, it's a win for Liam too. He couldn't be any more grateful for the breathing room it's granted him to focus on that night's childrens talent show that the centre's hosting.

The week's consisted of nonstop coordinating with their partner youth organization around the corner, along with food vendors and small businesses that were willing to donate decorations and props to create a makeshift "stage" for the kids to perform on. Taking Wednesday off wasn't even an option, not when he was still expected to run his normal classes and activities for the young adults who this building is technically meant to serve first. To say Liam's exhausted would be a gross understatement; in any case, the show must go on.

Hands on hips, he takes in the upstairs gym space from just inside the doorway, finally allowing himself to feel prideful at what he's accomplished. Against the back wall there are collapsable tables full to the brim with various foods, all hot in some capacity except for the salads. In front of them, a sea of foldable chairs for parents and guardians to watch the show that's due to start in thirty minutes. Before he turns to go check on the talent, he examines the table he set up near the room's entrance, making sure that the info pamphlets about local services that pertain to the demographic in attendance aren't scarce.

In the rooms that are normally used for interview practice or study areas down the hallway, children chat nervously to one another. Some practice their routines, while others have abandoned their equipment altogether and have forgotten that they're tucked away from the adults in their lives for a reason, not simply to have fun with their mates. Liam doesn't really blame that group; if he were in their shoes, he'd do the same. In fact, when he was forced to attend his local community centre's after school club with his sisters, Liam looked at the necessity as a way to meet other kids who were like him - living below the poverty line and looking for a place where they weren't ridiculed for not being able to afford new school uniforms every year. And even though almost all the children Liam made friends with were required by their parents to attend the government funded handout as a way to ensure their children stayed far away from becoming a statistic in their crime ridden neighborhood, Liam remembers feeling grateful that each day after the school bell rang, he had a judgement free zone waiting for him with snacks that weren't from ASDA's discount aisle. They're fond memories for him to think back on, and hopefully, the environment that he's created here will be conducive to memory making for this generation of kids born into shite circumstances.

"Oh come on," Liam whines dramatically from his spot on one of the private room's floor, "you don't think I look as good as Holden?"

A group of girls, all similar in age (around seven), skin tone (pale as snow), and outfit (purple cheer uniforms), shake their heads, unimpressed at the twenty-six year old man dressed in a black top hat and cape.

"You look like you bought the wrong size Halloween costume," one of them giggles. The group joins in.

Such a carefree sound has Liam wondering why he didn't work with this organization any sooner. They don't collaborate often, but there's an air of innocence - ignorance almost - at the way children handle their misfortunate circumstances that can't be found in the older teenagers Liam works with on a daily basis. He should really take charge of all the crossover projects between the two non-profits going forward.

"It's a good thing I'm rubbish at magic then," he tells the girls.

Another comes forward. "What's your talent?"

Liam's a tad boastful when he replies "balancing", but the smile on his lips turns down when the response is met with a unanimous "that's not a talent".

"Why not?" He shoots back gently, glad that he's a grown adult. That sort of reaction would've put a damper on his entire spirit when he was their age.

"Because everyone can balance."

"Wait until later and then you'll see," Liam says with an overly exaggerated tone of mystery.

The girls lose all interest in Liam and his lousy act right on time for the boy whose costume he's stolen to walk up, half-eaten quesadilla slice in hand.

"Taste alright, mate?" Liam asks, undoing the small bow around his neck that he had made with the cape's ties.

"Yeah, it's good," the nine year old answers. "Way nicer than beans on toast."

Just the mention of the meal makes Liam's stomach turn. He hasn't had it since he moved out of his parents place, but he can still remember. Twenty-one pence. That's how much it costs per serving if you get a twenty-four slice loaf of bread for one pound, an off-brand can of baked beans for twenty-seven pence, and split the can over two slices. Technically it comes out to be twenty-one point nine pence, but Liam's mum usually liked to round down when she was calculating their food budget per person each week.

"Can I let you in on a little secret?" He continues on when Holden nods, "I know it's gonna sound gross, but if you put cinnamon over the top of the baked beans, you can trick yourself into thinking it's a dessert."

"Ewww," the boy cringes, face scrunching up at the thought.

"I know, I know," Liam sympathizes, "but I used to eat beans on toast at least three or four nights a week when I was a kid. I know what it's like to get sick of eating the same thing. Trust me, just try it."

As Liam finishes fastening the cape around his neck, Holden considers the possibility that it might not be as bad as he thinks if it's been tried and tested.

"Maybe," he replies skeptically, stealing his hat off Liam's head and walking away.

Pushing himself off the floor, Liam's ready to lend a hand to whoever's close by and needs it. He's not expecting that someone might be Zayn.

The man's average height - on UK standards. Liam can't get that wrong ("I'm a full _ten_ centimeters taller than the average Pakistani man, _Leeyum_ "). So needless to say, he's not hard to spot. It also doesn't help that he's still in his work attire, just like he said he would be when he accepted the invitation to attend during their lunch date earlier that week. It's the usual button up and black trousers, but that doesn't mean Liam finds them any less attractive than the last time he saw Zayn wear them.

"I stick out," the older male says as soon as Liam's waded through the swarm of youngsters to pull him close for a hug.

"Some parents are still in their uniforms." In the middle of pulling away, Liam's arm gets stuck in Zayn's work bag. It leads to him asking if the other wants to store it downstairs under his desk, and a kiss that takes him by surprise midway down the steps when Zayn agrees.

"Didn't want to scar the kids," he mumbles against Liam's mouth after.

The irony that the youth Zayn's trying to protect could walk into their bubble any second, and the tingling sensation on Liam's lips from the sharp edges of Zayn's mustache, gives rise to the short giggle Liam lets out. It sounds again when Zayn adds, "And a kiss on the cheek wasn't going to cut it I'm afraid."

With flushed cheeks, Liam takes the bag off Zayn's shoulder and a step back. "This is heavier than usual," he observes, looking down and seeing a black sleeve hanging out; it looks to be made out of a mesh material. Rather than push the piece of clothing further into the bag and feel if his guess is correct or not, Liam's beaten to it.

"Yeah, I went to the gym earlier and just stuffed my clothes in there," Zayn replies hastily once he's forced the sleeve under the leather flap. "I'm not about to carry around a duffle bag like you every time I want to exercise."

It's odd, but Liam doesn't bring any attention to the action. It'd be contradictory if he did considering the real reason he totes his bag around is so that he's got his suit on him at all times. In exchange, he leads the way down the remainder of the stairs and narrows in on the new piece of insight he's just been given. "I didn't realize you worked out."

At the bottom of the landing, Liam can feel himself being watched as he walks over to his desk and stuffs the satchel next to his duffle.

"My bodybuilder physique didn't give it away?" Zayn questions, flexing both arms with visible force the instant Liam's making his way back towards him.

"Guess I've been paying too much attention to your beautiful eyes to notice anything else," Liam professes, a sneaky smile turning up higher with each step he takes.

"In other words," Zayn smirks, drinking in Liam's approaching figure, "you think I'm too skinny."

"In other words, I think you have beautiful eyes." They're only teasing, but something inside Liam has him feeling the need to convince Zayn that there's more to the banter, that he's perfect as is, without a muscular build. So Liam adds to the list, trailing his hands over the parts of the other's body he's bringing attention to. "And arms, and shoulders, and chest, and..."

"No one told you to stop," Zayn urges once Liam's hands have come to a halt at his belly button.

Innocently, yet sincere all the same, Liam wraps his arms around the older male's slim waist. "I think you're more than just a pretty face."

"You're right, I am." The cockiness in Zayn's voice and facial expression drops after he must feel Liam's glare deserves a rest. "And so are you."

He's always known that he's not all that hard to please, but god damn if Liam wouldn't do anything Zayn told him to if his instructions were given in that charming tone and with that ravishing smile.

He doesn't reply. He'd make a fool of himself if he did, so he pulls Zayn back up the stairs and into the room where the main event's meant to take place, expecting to leave him there to find a seat while he goes to help with the kids' last minute costume changes. He's not prepared when they're barely through the door and Zayn asks where he's needed the most. Liam's face must give away his surprise, because the man follows his question up with, "what? You didn't literally invite me here just to watch seven year olds juggle, did you?"

For a second, Liam thinks back to what Niall had said about wanting to wait and see if Zayn ever took an interest in Liam's career instead of it staying a one-way street; they're going to have a lot to talk about tomorrow.

The easiest thing that Liam feels comfortable enough assigning Zayn to do is check on the food supply, but then he spots a middle eastern couple, and a lightbulb goes off.

"Do you speak Arabic?"

Zayn's quick to turn his head, eyes ablaze with irritation. "You know I have every right to slap you for stereotyping me like that," he snarls. "I told you I'm-"

"Pakistani," Liam interjects swiftly. "I know. You speak Urdu. I wouldn't forget something that important." The fire in Zayn's eyes dissipates some. "I just thought I'd ask."

Slowly, the older man sheaths his claws, though his body stays alert. "I know a little from when I studied the Quran," he says carefully, jumping back into defense mode when Liam lights up. "But I'm not fluent."

"That's alright, something's better than nothing."

Like he wasn't just scolded to his grave and back, Liam grabs Zayn by the arm and drags him into one of the side rooms, scanning its occupants for one special yo-yoer.

"Mohammad," he says, relieved when he finds the nine year old showing off his toy. "This is Zayn."

"Assalamualaikum," Zayn greets calmly, earning him a wide smile and giddy "waalaikumsalam" in response.

Enthused to be speaking to someone in his first language, Mohammad forgets the kids around him and goes on a short tangent in Arabic, which makes Liam dizzy, but Zayn amused. If it weren't for the latter holding up his right thumb and pointer finger to indicate - or Liam _guesses_ is an indication - that he's limited in his vocabulary, Liam would be even more lost than he already felt.

"If you need me, I won't be far."

On his way to kneeling, Zayn spares a glance up at Liam to let him know that he's been heard, but then completely ignores him as the little boy, clad in worn out jeans and a stained navy sweater, jumps back into whatever it is he wants to chat about to his new acquaintance.

Occasionally, Liam looks over from where he's settled himself in another corner of the room, helping patch up a few holes in a dancer's outfit, to where he left the two. The first time he did, Zayn appeared to be keeping up with the conversation, even if it seemed to take all of his concentration to do so. The second time, Liam snuck a glimpse while wetting the tip of a new piece of string to thread through the eye of his needle, grinning to himself at the sight of Mohammad showing off his plethora of yo-yo tricks to the older man as well as the small crowd that had gathered around him previously. But it's this last time, while Liam's biting off the excess string atop the knot he's tied, grateful that he still remembers how to sew from his childhood when buying new clothes was out of the question, that his cursory look turns into a prolonged stare.

Zayn's got kids climbing all over him like a jungle gym, shoving up his work sleeves and peeking under his shirt collar in what can only be described as a frantic tattoo scavenger hunt. One finds a cursive name behind his left ear, tugging on the lobe a little harder than necessary and bringing a scowl to Zayn's face. Another notices feathers peaking out from the back of his shirt. Liam's nearly up and across the room when the young girl practically chokes Zayn in the process of getting a better look at the bird's body that the wispy tail's attached to, but Zayn reaches around with the arm that's getting the least amount of attention and tickles her sides to get her to stop.

It's such a soft means of reprehension, that Liam finds it hard to consider it that at all. It's not as soft as the smile on the man's lips when his arm's back in front of him and Mohammad points where Liam knows there to be two words (he's taken the liberty to assume they're Urdu) inked into his skin. But still, it's softer than Liam can recall ever seeing Zayn act in the past two months. Save when he wakes in the morning. Nothing tops Early Riser Zayn in Liam's book.

And yet, in the midst of being trampled on by a small army, Zayn continues to point to each of the words and talk over the ongoing game of "Count the Tattoos" with an effervescence that Liam didn't think the other was capable of. He's dying to know what it is about kids, other than the obvious normative behaviours adults should exhibit when around them, that's got Zayn as lighthearted as he is at the moment. All Liam was aiming to do by introducing the man to the Syrian refugee, was to make the boy feel as normal as possible by speaking his native language regardless of how _ab_ normal his day to day life is. He never would've guessed such a simple interaction could unveil this new side of Zayn like it had, just like there's no way he could've ever known Zayn capable of giving encouraging thumbs up. He almost has to do a double take when they're sitting out in the audience one hour and twelve acts later, and in his peripheral, Liam catches the signal given to Mohammad as he walks to the center of the provisional stage with his bright yellow yo-yo.

"I better get a thumbs up," Liam mutters close to Zayn's ear as the two clap proudly while the boy takes a shy bow several minutes later.

There's hardly any time for Zayn to look confused. Before he can turn his head and ask what was meant by the comment, Liam's up and out of his seat.

"Hi," he says into the microphone, center stage. "My name's Liam, and I'm twenty-six." The crowd laughs lightly at the formulaic introduction that the kids were told to adhere to being repeated by a fully grown adult. "And my talent's having really good balance."

On cue, one of the older kids off to the side of the stage pulls the curtain back to reveal a balance beam that had been used for a gymnastics routine a few acts prior. It only comes up to Liam's knee, but it'll do. There's a football placed near one end, and as soon as he moves the microphone stand off to the side, Liam goes straight for it, upbeat music playing through the room's sound system as he does.

Thanks to his superpowers, no concentration's really necessary for Liam to wow the crowd, his new DNA will do that for him. Regardless, he bobs his head side to side, finding the song's rhythm and using it as his metronome.

The football never hits the ground, always being juggled in the air by Liam's quick feet tapping it up. Sometimes it's being bounced up to his arms, gliding from one to the other over his chest and behind the curve of his neck, other times Liam's legs circle the ball while it's in the air. But it's when he's doing all of this on the beam, only using one foot to keep balance, that elevates the tricks from ones a professional footballer might do in their spare time, to those that he guarantees the audience hasn't seen. He hops from foot to foot, spinning himself around, kicking the ball up so that it bounces on his head, doing whatever he thinks will get a rise out of the spectators. However, as the music comes to an end, he improvises one final maneuver that'll leave a lasting impression for sure.

In one smooth motion, Liam kicks the ball up to twice his height and switches his feet out for his hands. Even though his jumper falls to reveal his base layer of a plain white tee, he still keeps the handstand perfectly straight and catches the ball on the soles of shoes. Thunderous applause can be heard over the music, never faltering from its high volume even after Liam lowers himself down so that his arms are at a ninety degree angle. He utilizes the kinetic energy he gains when he pushes back up to pop the ball into the air as well as jump off the beam onto both feet once again. He takes a gracious bow after the ball lands safely in the crook of his right ankle.

"Thank you very much!" He smiles, kicking the ball off to the side and grabbing the microphone one more time. "I'm a lifeskills worker here at Royal Phoenix and I just want to say thank you for coming out and showing all of the kids such great support. I know it's not easy to have to beat traffic and maybe even take off work, but I was in their shoes once, so I know how grateful they're all feeling, seeing someone that cares about them make an effort to get involved. We're still open downstairs for young adults to come in, but if any of our computers or facilities are free, then you're all welcome to use them until we close at ten. And again, thanks for coming."

A bashful smile spreads across Liam's face as the sound of applause takes over the room, widening when the announcer steals the microphone from him and thanks Liam for being the one in charge of putting all of this together.

While the adults disperse following the final thank you's, the children who were gathered around the front of the stage bombard Liam all at once, asking if he can teach them some of his moves. Even without powers, most of their bodies are small and still relatively uncoordinated, so there's no way they can come close to the fancy tricks he had demonstrated, but he does do his best to show the sweet spot on the bridge of your foot to keep a football's trajectory straight up. It takes less than thirty seconds of instruction for Liam to sense boredom and tell the kids to go eat themselves into the ground, especially via desserts. A sea of little people swarm to the back tables.

"Mohammad," Liam calls when the boy hesitates joining the rest of his friends, preoccupied with winding up his yo-yo string. "You were wicked. Someday you'll have to show me an easy trick."

"Ok." Looking up from his toy, Mohammad stares out into the room. "Where's Zayn?"

"He's sitting out there somewhere," Liam reassures him, surprised by the specific inquiry. "You guys seemed like you got along well."

"Yeah, it's nice to talk to another refugee."

Before he can let the shock from being told a secret piece of information about his date that's somewhere in the vicinity, Liam grabs a hold of his emotions. "Good, I'm glad." He nods towards the other side of the room, "Go get some sweets before your parents can tell you no."

With a football under his right shoe and a somber ache behind his left pectoral, Liam tries to process the detail of Zayn's life that the man's left out after Mohammad's run off to steal a cupcake or two.

It makes sense the more it sinks in. How Zayn doesn't like talking about his past. How he still hasn't given any background as to how he and Harry became brothers. Liam had thought perhaps they were step-brothers ever since their meeting, but if Zayn was a refugee as a child, maybe he and Harry are adoptive brothers. It's typecasting, but with how many refugees had come into the centre recently after being displaced from their homes due to recent militant activity in the Middle East, Liam's seen his fair share of war zone PTSD. It'd make sense for Zayn to have gotten triggered over the past weekend from the specific noises that went off at the concert, not just generic lights and sounds like Harry had downplayed the sensitivity to be a product of.

"You missed your calling. Should've joined the circus."

Rather than Zayn's voice startling Liam out of his thoughts, it pains him. Like he had with Mohammad, he keeps his feelings hidden from plain sight, but Liam can't help himself from seeing Zayn in a new light. Even though it's Liam's default reaction, he refuses to let sympathy into his heart; that's clearly the reason he hadn't been made known that part of Zayn's life. But voicing any of his thoughts out loud would shatter the bright disposition that Zayn's exuded ever since showing up and undoubtedly drive him to a place of hostility Liam doesn't ever want to see. So instead, he inhales deeply and shrugs.

"There's still time." His positivity gets him an eye roll. "Thanks for coming, but I'm gonna be here a while to clean up, so I've gotta cut our night short. Or," he reconsiders, "whatever this was."

"It's alright," Zayn says evenly. "I'll help."

"You will?"

Liam's arched eyebrow causes Zayn to chuckle softly, "Yeah, it beats going home and listening to the not-so-newlyweds bicker about why one of them spent five hundred quid on a vintage samurai sword."

"Louis," Liam guesses.

To show the answer's correct, Zayn points to his nose. "You learn fast. I do want to steal one of those cupcakes before the gremlins take them all though." He tries to look over the heads in the room to see if he's run out of time, before resting his eyes back on Liam. "Do you want one?"

He's eaten well for eight years. Tonight, Liam's goal is to be as selfless as possible. "No," he shakes his head, "thank you."

The fond smile that shows itself when he's being given a kiss to the cheek in reply, turns sullen as soon as Zayn walks away to poach a sweet. Picking up the beam and standing it against the wall, worry that he won't be able to shake this sensation of pity for the remainder of the night engulfs Liam. But the moment he sees Zayn walking back towards him, a cup of coffee in each hand evidence that he understands Liam enough to know that caffeine's something the younger male needs without having to ask, Liam knows he'll be ok.

\--------------------------------

Just when his work life calmed down, injustice came knocking on Liam's door. It's like the universe knows that he's got free time to spare again and orchestrated for a bus of supervillains being transported to their specially designed prison in the midlands to be let loose. Since it happened farther than his police scanner could pick up, Liam found out with everyone else on the next day's morning news.

A copy of the radio call that one of the bus' officers made before he was killed played as part of the report. In it you can hear the frantic man claim how there was a UFO-like saucer shooting at the vehicle and somehow penetrating the bulletproof walls. The line cuts off after a brief play-by-play, leaving the anchors to explain that by the time patrol cars got to the scene, all that was left were the officers' dead bodies amongst the wreckage; the bus had been turned over on its side, a gaping hole in the middle of the rear iron door, possibly made by a laser. Because there weren't any signs of footprints or disturbances in the immediate vicinity, the only logical answer that the police could come up with for where the criminals escaped to was in the UFO machine itself. Not even a full day after the newscast was broadcast does Liam find himself face to face with the first escapee.

It's been a while since he's faced supervillains and not just average bad guys on the streets; the last one he put away must've been over six months ago. And truth be told, any time he did, it always amazed him at how much the altercation wound up testing his abilities. With the bus having had villains from every corner of the country except London, Liam struggled a bit facing their new powers. Especially against the villain from Leeds he'd read about who could shoot lasers out of his hands and the obvious choice for who to place the blame on regarding the hole in the back of the bus. Liam had needed to create a mirror from a car's windshield and hood in order to get the man dressed in a purple suit, to kill himself by way of his own laser bouncing back at him. Death is something Liam aims to avoid at all costs, but in certain circumstances, he doesn't see any other way. Even more so now that sending them to jail isn't a sure fire way to keep the city safe any more like it used to be.

But finally. _Finally_ , he was able to find some time to see Zayn. Miraculously the other's been just as busy on a heavy deadline from his editor to turn around a new book that they just bought the rights to by the summer deadline next week. From what he gathered during their mid-week Facetime call that Liam had insisted on having to destress them both, if the final draft didn't get to the illustrator on time, then it wouldn't get to the business affairs team to approve on time, which meant there was no way for the book to hit shelves and perfectly coincide with the demographic's summer break - the time of the year they have the most free time to read, and in turn, the most lucrative three months for publishers. If even half of that is correct, Liam can't imagine the amount of pressure Zayn's had on his shoulders this past week.

For that reason alone, picking out what he was going to wear to the table tennis lounge Zayn had picked out for them to meet at after Liam got off work that night, wasn't something Liam wanted to take lightly. It just so happens that the underground lounge isn't just dimly lit, it's only source of light is UV black lights, which means Liam's crisp white shirt and pink bomber jacket make a lot more of a statement than he originally planned. The moment the two walked in, he had said a silent prayer of gratitude that he settled on simple black jeans and not the white ones he had heavily considered.

He's never been to New York, but if he had to guess, Liam would say this place looks a lot like a Brooklyn club. The walls are primarily brick, artwork made of neon lights and UV enhanced paints lining them tastefully. Most of the floor's covered evenly in fluorescent yellow and green ping pong tables, though each has a unique graffiti tag to its surface. In the corners, darkened from the lights' limited radius are partygoers nursing drinks they got from the glass bar that extends across most of the wall furthest from the door. It's the sort of place Niall would love, and as they find an open table after grabbing a couple of beers, Liam wonders why it is he and his best mate haven't ever been before. But as soon as Zayn quits humouring his date and begins to show off his skills, pint in his left hand, bright red paddle in his right, Liam ditches all thoughts of his flatmate.

Zayn's dangerously good at ping pong. After getting absolutely wrecked in their first game and demanding to know where Zayn learned how to play like that, Liam finds out that it's because he and Harry had got a table one year for Christmas. It's funny too. Considering Zayn's always so serious, Liam really shouldn't be all that surprised to find out he's got a competitive side to him that the toughest of athletes would be impressed by. And while he's pretty shitty at putting up points to begin with, Liam doesn't exactly help himself when he lets the ball get past him once or twice because he's too busy staring at the way Zayn bites down on his bottom lip every time he's coming up with a strategic move as if they're properly competing for a trophy and not the next round of drinks.

There's hardly any room for Liam to focus when the darkness that surrounds them adds to the allure of Zayn's sharp features. In daylight, the older man's got a mysterious shadow that follows him around, but the room's splashes of neon colour and the concentrated crease in Zayn's brow, accentuates the sexy intrigue that comes with being an enigma. At one point, he takes off his leather jacket and slings it over the nearest barstool, leaving his long sleeve green henley to glow so brightly, his face looks like it's being lit from underneath. Liam's never seen anything more stunning in his life.

"I thought you were the sporty one between us," Zayn smirks as he comes around the side of their table, victorious for a third time.

"I guess that's only true when it comes to games that require actual movement."

Eyes narrowed playfully, Zayn downs the last of his latest pint. "Yeah, well, I'm not joining you on the football field any time soon to test that."

"It's a football _pitch_ ," Liam corrects, pleased that he can have some sort of upper hand in this conversation.

"No, it's not," Zayn protests vehemently. "Pitches are for cricket. Field's are for football and..." he brings his glass up to his lips and rests it there as he thinks. "What's that other sport you and the Australians play? The one with the ball that looks like an American football, but it's not."

"Rugby?"

"Yeah," his eyes light up with recognition, "rugby. Fields are for football and rugby."

"And picnics," Liam adds with a smile that's there to mock Zayn more than it is to be pleasant.

"Go buy us our next round, sap." The empty glass in Zayn's hand gets slotted inside the one in Liam's, fond irritation in the man's tone and expression. "I'm gonna go to the toilet real fast."

From underneath the table, Liam pulls out his duffle bag - an unfortunate side effect of meeting Zayn straight after work - slings it over his shoulder, and goes up to the bar. With most standing around ping pong tables, Liam easily finds a spot in the middle of the bar to lean up against, trading the empty glasses in his hand for an order of two more and looking through his phone while the it's fulfilled.

"Is this seat taken?"

The posh accent steals Liam's focus a few seconds into checking his news feed. Peering up from the screen, he's met with a man, close to his age with the same neutral white skin tone.

"No, go ahead," Liam says, already back to staring at his phone when he hears, "I'll take whatever he's having", and things start to click.

"I'm Grant," the man smiles once he's attracted Liam's attention a second time.

He's wearing a short sleeve polo with the top button done up, the material stretching across his toned chest. There's no sign of facial hair across his cheeks or pointed jaw, and because of that, he's got a bit of a baby faced look to him.

"Liam," he grins politely, searching for the barman to see how much longer he's subjected to standing there.

"What gym do you go to?"

Confused, Liam looks back to Grant for clarification. The duffle bag hanging near his upper thigh gets nudged for reference, but instead of moving back into his own space after the light prod, Grant takes advantage of the minuscule gap he's bridged between them and stays where he is.

"Oh, I don't." Unable to move backwards thanks to another body behind him, Liam shifts his bag in an effort to gain back some of their distance. "I use the free weights at work and run around the park near my flat."

Grant nods, taking Liam's move as an excuse to examine his body from his duffle, up. "Sounds like you've got a routine."

"Yeah," Liam replies indifferently, "I do."

"Well, you know what they say about workout routines. You need to mix them up, otherwise your progress plateaus." When Liam stays silent and takes out his wallet to pay for his drinks, Grant goes in for the kill. "I've got an in-home cardio plan I can share with you if you're interested."

"I'm good, thanks." Because he's in a rush, Liam doesn't even look at the total that's on the card reader's screen that's being handed over, he just taps his bank card on the top and waits for the distinct beeping noise to signal its acceptance.

"Are you sure? Everyone who's ever tried it has said they've gotten great results."

If this guy would pay attention to anything other than Liam's lips, maybe he would've taken the hint and noticed that Liam was picking up two pints after putting away his wallet, not just one. But that's neither here nor there, all that's on Liam's mind is getting out of this situation before his actual date finds him. If Zayn got angry at the Tube station worker earlier who asked if Liam had tapped in correctly when his Oyster card wouldn't work, bending down to yell through the tiny opening in the help window and shouting, "Does he look like a four year old who hasn't ever used public transport? Of fucking course he tapped in correctly! If he's got a five o'clock shadow, I think he knows how to put a card against a magnetic strip. Fix it, fucking tosser!" Liam still feels guilty for putting the middle-aged man through such a thing when all it came down to was a lack of funds on his card from taking his bike to work on days he doesn't have plans in the evening. But if Zayn got pissed about that, Liam doesn't want to know what he'd say if he saw this.

As he's about to walk away and ignore Grant completely, the man puts a hand on his bicep.

"Seriously," he says just below the music, eyes boring into Liam's wide ones, "let's get out of here."

From his days on the street as a kid, Liam knows he can hold his own, especially against an average looking desperate, but he's not the violent type, and coming up with something relatively courteous, yet effective isn't the easiest since Grant doesn't seem to be the type to take rejection well.

"I-"

Liam doesn't get the chance to complete his thought, he's taken off guard by another hand yanking the other off his arm.

"Back off or I'll make you," Zayn threatens viciously, his jaw clenched tight in fury.

But Grant doesn't flinch, nor look worried for his safety like most would be. Quite the opposite actually. He comes across as amused, pulling out a tenner from his pocket to pay for his pint that's appeared and taking his time sipping the foam off the top.

Meanwhile, Liam's put down his beers to free up his hands and pull Zayn back before he does something he regrets.

"Zayn," he commands gently, "it's ok."

"No it's not," the older man bites back, his slitted eyes trained on the person he's deemed his next prey. "Some guy's got his hands on my boyfriend. That's the furthest thing from ok."

_Boyfriend_.

To his dismay, Liam's only granted enough time to process the label, not revel in it. Not when Grant tilts his head at Liam in consideration and says, "I've gotta give it to you, you hide the sub thing well". He's too worried that the beast that line's just released inside of Zayn is about to get them all in trouble. There's no time to think about what his relationship status is.

"Say it again!" Zayn shouts with Liam's hands around his waist, fighting to keep him from stepping even further into Grant's space than he just has. "Say it again and watch what happens!"

"Zayn," Liam demands, using his strength to wiggle himself between the two men, but it's difficult with the group of people that are standing behind Grant preventing any extra space from materializing. "Stop," Liam insists, hearing several people behind the bar start to call security.

It seems to be enough for Grant to walk away, but not without blatantly checking out Liam's figure one last time.

Zayn lunges, unable to grab hold of the stranger's shirt thanks to Liam's instincts (and quite possibly his powers) kicking in to push Zayn back instantaneously.

"Cool off," Liam grunts as he continues to push Zayn as far away from the direction Grant's gone as possible. "He's not bothering me anymore. Everything's fine."

Fighting against Liam's grip, Zayn refuses to let his enemy out of sight. "I'll rip his fucking throat out."

"Look at me." Knowing he has quick enough reflexes to stop Zayn if he makes a break for it, Liam pulls his hands away from Zayn's torso and places them on each of the other's cheeks to force him to do as he says. "Look at me," he repeats, locking eyes with Zayn's when he's finally being listened to. "I'm right here. I'm all yours." The calming words eliminate a portion of the fire in Zayn's demeanor, but he's still sizzling. "Only yours." Liam lets his hands relax against the older man's skin and prickly beard as the sentiment sinks in for them both. "There's no need to get arrested for fighting a stranger when all he did was hit on me."

There's meant to be humour in the last remark, but Zayn doesn't even come close to cracking a smile. "I'd fight him if all he did was breathe too close to you."

Seeing that they're not going to get anywhere in this atmosphere, Liam begins to drag Zayn towards the door, leaving their drinks behind without a second thought. "Come on, let's go."

"No, we were having a good time." Despite his objection, Zayn doesn't resist Liam's pulling. "I'm not going to let some prick ruin that."

"It's alright, we can have a good time somewhere else."

Outside, the frigid night air almost makes Liam regret his decision to leave the warm confines of the lounge, but he reminds himself of why he's brought them out here and brings the hand he's been holding of Zayn's up to his neck. He does the same with the other, taking a moment to appreciate the heat that transfers from the man's palms to Liam's exposed neck, before leaning forward and doing his best to kiss Zayn calm.

It's hard to tell if it's worked or if the cold temperature's to blame for Zayn's headspace returning to normal afterwards, but toasty fingertips at the back of his neck stay where they are, so Liam's content.

"How about this?" He starts in an upbeat tone. "How about we go back to my place-"

"I'm liking this plan," Zayn interjects.

"So I can drop off my bag," he continues, even more settled now that the male's back to exhibiting his typical wry behaviour.

"Mhm..."

"And then I'll drive you around on my motorbike."

Zayn sighs when he's not being met with the answer he thought they might've been leading up to, dropping his forehead against Liam's for dramatic effect.

"I promise I'll go fast," the younger man vows, pecking the other's lips in hopes to seal the deal.

"Fine," Zayn surrenders. "But only because I'm going to get to witness you breaking the law."

Little does he know, being able to go from zero to sixty in less than four seconds was Liam's sole reason for choosing to buy a motorbike; no way he stood a chance at getting to crime scenes in time with anything other than that sort of power.

For now, they take the Tube, Liam leaning back in the poorly cushioned seats, eyes shut while Zayn does most of the talking for once. He goes on about the latest book he's reading for pleasure that centers around this group of handicapped females who find comfort in each other during their mid-forties. It's a lengthy conversation about way too many stylistic elements for Liam to understand, but he asks the occasional question knowing the answer will go over his head anyway. The liveliness in Zayn's voice that, so far, has only shown itself anytime he talks about books, is too much of a luxury for Liam to not indulge himself in and take advantage of.

On the walk from Brixton station to Liam's flat, the enthusiasm in Zayn's voice doesn't disappear, but it does change from pleasurable to its usual state of annoyance. Apparently, Harry's choice in queens for this drag race series is far from acceptable.

Approaching his door, the thought of whether Niall's home or not pops into Liam's mind. It leaves as soon as he unlocks the door, turns on the lights, and sees that one of the three pairs of trainers the Irishmen owns is gone.

Entering the flat, Zayn moves on to the one topic he can never stray away from: his coworkers. Before Zayn came along, Liam didn't know it was possible to talk so much about one group of people, but he's tired from a long day's work, so he lets Zayn prattle on as he sets his bag on the kitchen counter and gets them a bottle of beer each from the fridge to relax on the couch with.

Zayn's already situated on the sofa, seamlessly incorporating a "thank you" for the beer into his rant on margin size rules that everyone should've learned on their first day of university. He doesn't stop when Liam takes a seat, nor does he remind Liam of his promise to quench Zayn's need for speed, he merely continues on, almost as if all of this has been building up inside of him with no other person to let it out to.

But Liam's all ears. Willing to put in his two cents every so often, and also keep his lips tightly shut when it's obvious no matter what he thinks about Carrie's need to water her desk plants three times a day, Zayn's still going to find it "repulsive".

The only time he really voices his opinion is when he sees a gap large enough to express his desire to change out of his jeans and into something more comfortable. "You're free to help yourself to whatever's in the fridge," he tells Zayn on his way off the couch. "Niall and I share stuff, so unless it's a takeaway container, take your pick."

"I'll wait," Zayn replies, standing up with him. "I'd rather just stay close to you."

And he does, for the rest of the night. Pulling Liam close for a kiss on the way to his bedroom after grabbing the man's duffle for him. Taking off a lot more of his clothes than just his jeans when they make it to their destination. Crawling on top of him when they're both naked in bed, proving himself harmless when he wraps his arm around Liam's torso to get him to arch his back and make room for a pillow to slide underneath. Not even for a second does the younger man feel as though he's being constricted by some kind of rope like the last time their skin was up against one another's. He feels safe.

Much like he does when they finally have sex for the first time that night. It's a lot more peaceful than Liam would've imagined given how high Zayn's testosterone had been a couple hours prior. The man takes his time, is gentle with Liam like he's a gift that needs to be cherished, not taken for granted.

And even though he knows it's nothing but a figment of his imagination, Liam swears that the entire time they're connected and Zayn's got his head dipped down into the hollow gap created by Liam's left collarbone, he feels like he's floating. Like he's laying on a fresh sheet of snow with no ground beneath it. Perhaps this is what it's like for angels living in the clouds.

His imaginary heaven drifts away, but not for long. Real clouds made from billows of steam replace his hallucination later on when they're both crammed in the flat's single shower.

While the piping hot water cascades down onto him, Liam allows himself to become engulfed in the overwhelming sensation of contentment that's come over him. Not necessarily because he's just had one of the best orgasms in the past few years, but because the serenity that the shower's gifted allows Liam to revisit a thought he was forced to put on pause earlier.

Behind him, the tender hands lathered with body wash stop their movements along Liam's spine.

"Are you ok?" Zayn asks, concerned.

To make sure he doesn't slip and fall, Liam turns around slowly. He meets Zayn's curious eyes, stating, rather than asking for confirmation, "So, I'm your boyfriend."

Immediately, Zayn dodges Liam's gaze, taken by surprise at the random comment. Rather than ignore the sudden change in dispositions like he usually might to downplay the switch, Liam looks on. He's too fascinated by how vulnerable Zayn's just made himself not to, expression blank as he tries to come up with an adequate answer.

"Well, I..." Zayn stops himself, licking his lips like it'll instill him with much needed confidence. "I like to think so," he eventually gets out.

Liam's grateful for the red tone that his skin's taken on from the water's temperature; he doesn't need to hide his blush this way.

He still looks down absentmindedly, parts of Zayn's right sleeve of tattoos catching his eye when he does. The space scene on the man's upper tricep, the skull with a slingshot lower down, the huge "ZAP!" in comic book font. All bound together by a sky of pillowy clouds.

When Liam doesn't speak, only the still falling water does, Zayn utters, "Don't you?"

The nervousness in the older male's tone pulls Liam's eyes back up. Where there's typically an armoured hothead, stands an exposed soldier, looking for acceptance, for reassurance that his Freudian slip of true feelings was permissible.

"Yeah," Liam answers simply, his hand rising to Zayn's neck in comfort. "I do."

Slowly, they both break out into a wide smile, the sensation of freedom that follows bearing your heart stays with Liam well through the night and into the morning. Because it's still just as powerful when he wakes, he seriously entertains the thought of calling in sick to work just so he can stay in bed with Zayn a little longer and hear how long the polarizing softness the man falls victim to when he's newly awake lasts.

But he's a responsible adult, and he can't.

What he can do is check to make sure Zayn's still asleep before using his powers to close the blinds handsfree so the sun can't disturb them for now.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

"You're supposed to get it in my mouth."

"I'm trying, but you keep moving."

"What a liar! Here, I'll hold my breath."

A yellow M&M sails across Liam's couch and straight into Zayn's right eye. Luckily, he anticipated the rubbish toss and shut both eyelids in protection, leaving him to only feel a light tap. As the chocolate trails down his cheek and into the blanket covering their tangled legs, Zayn lets out a huge roar of laughter.

He missed this - the serenity that comes with dating someone new and being able to find the fun in something as stupid as tossing candies back and forth on a Saturday night with cartoons on in the background.

It's been a couple weeks since they officially became boyfriends, and if Zayn was to be honest with himself, the time since then has been like living on cloud nine. He's got a new partner, no more deadlines to look out for until the end of the fourth quarter in June when the publishing house would start putting together Fall lineups, and a new villain crew that he's been helping cause mischief in his downtime. Life's been fucking great.

"Come on," Liam whines, another coloured pebble already in his hand. "Let me give it another go."

Because it's Liam, Zayn doesn't allow himself to get annoyed at the fact that the same words have come out of the man's mouth about twenty times now with no improvement in sight. He merely opens wide and waits for the chocolate to ricochet off some other part of his face that's nowhere near his mouth. His chin, it turns out to be.

Instead of eating it, Zayn motions for Liam to get ready and sinks it perfectly into the other's mouth.

Like the insolent asshole he is, Zayn raises eyebrows in hubris then looks down at the pouch of sweets in his lap so as to not witness the self-loathing puppy dog pout that Liam's surely sending him.

At random, an orange M&M gets pulled out of the bag. He stares at it in between his thumb and pointer finger, rolling it around so he can find the imprinted "M" on its surface.

"When I was a kid, my favourite sweet was this mango candy called Aamras." The M&M drops into Zayn's palm. "One was about the size of a butterscotch. Hard on the outside, mango pulp on the inside. I wish I could find them here." He picks the candy up with the fingers of his left hand, and then smashes it. "The West doesn't appreciate the mango enough."

_Among other things._

"Mangoes are expensive," Liam replies as Zayn licks his fingers clean. "Chocolate did it for me as a kid."

"You don't say?"

Zayn can tell his smirk, gets to Liam a tad by the way the other purses his own lips.

"But I wasn't as lucky back then to have someone like you to buy me the exotic kind," the younger man responds.

"Have we found out where Ecuador is yet?" Zayn leans further back into the decorative throw pillow that's between him and the arm of the sofa. "Is it actually exotic or just one of those countries that sounds like it is and winds up being entirely concrete. Or desert."

"I don't know."

"Well, whatever the fuck their lanscape is, I'm single-handedly keeping their economy afloat buying you all those chocolate bars," Zayn sneers while picking out more M&M's from the bag. "Shit isn't cheap."

"You don't have to buy them you know," Liam says earnestly. "You already insist on paying for everything else. If you-"

"Do you like them?" Zayn asks, abandoning the sweets in his palm to stare at Liam pointedly.

"That's not-"

"Do you like them?" He repeats with more provocation than before.

Liam's body relaxes as he gives in and tells Zayn what he already knows. "A lot."

"Then I'd spend my last pound on one for you."

Ignoring Liam's bashful eye roll, Zayn chucks all the chocolates he was holding onto in his mouth, chewing quickly since he's being given the signal to open up for another.

The red candy hits Zayn's right shoulder and falls to the floor.

"You're the worst," Zayn mutters as he leans his torso over the side of the couch to try and find where it landed.

A loud stomping can be heard after the distinct sound of a lock's tumblers being turned.

"Niall!" Liam exclaims.

More exaggerated thuds come from the flat's entryway as Niall cleans off his shoes before kicking them off.

"Haven't been that excited to see me since that time you pissed yourself drunk and needed someone to help you undress so you didn't get it-"

The memory gets cut short when Zayn pops back up from his bent position, rendering Niall shell shocked.

"All over the flat," the man finishes quietly, eyes moving from the new face to Liam's beet red one. "Is this Zayn..."

"It is," Zayn answers for himself, tossing the missing M&M into his mouth with the largest smile he can recall having in a long time. "Nice to finally meet you."

From his spot on the couch, Zayn watches as Niall walks over to the kitchen area, just barely able to make out a soft "ah shit" be muttered along the way.

"I thought you were going out with Poppy tonight?" Liam asks his mate, avoiding Zayn's amused gaze that's now trained on him.

"I did, but she had some girls emergency, so our date got cut short." Peeking out from behind the fridge door he's got open, Niall surveys the two of them on the other side of the open flat. "Was I-" He points behind himself, "Do you want me to like, take a walk around the block, or?"

Zayn's cheeks start to hurt from how wide his grin is now that Liam's shielding his eyes. He's half-tempted to tell the man to just pull the blanket up over them, it'll do a better job at hiding his embarrassment.

"No," Liam answers weakly, "we were just talking. You're fine."

A few seconds later, Zayn can hear the fridge close and footsteps get closer. When it's clear Niall's coming to join them on the smaller of the two couches and not disappear into his room like Liam probably wishes _he_ could, Zayn lifts his end of the blanket up so he can sit up straight and make a good impression.

"So," Niall starts, trying to clear the awkwardness out of the air, "what were you two chattin' about?"

"Childhood sweets," Liam provides, twisting the lid off his bottle with a quick flick of the wrist. "Got any good Irish ones?"

"Not really. We've mostly got what you've got here." Throwing his hat on the coffee table that's in front of both couches, Niall nods towards Zayn. "You're from Pakistan, yeah? What part?"

The question throws Zayn off. It's not one he gets asked often, and if he does, it's almost never in English. But as he takes a drink from his beer, he realizes that he's not going to get any further explanation as to why Niall wants to know. Not unless he strings him along a little.

"Quetta," he answers casually, holding the other's stare. "Are you familiar with Pakistan?"

Niall all but laughs. "No, but Liam mentioned you were born there and moved when you were young."

_Then that makes the two of you equal in what you know._

Zayn feels like he should leave it at that. He's already gone above and beyond by stating his city of birth. That ought to be enough for another two months. But, if he's going to try like he promised himself he would, he supposes letting up on his pattern of silence would be the first step. He's taking the easy way out, though. It might be a little cowardly, but if he's going to give Liam what Zayn knows he wants to hear, he's going to do so this way, not relaying everything privately.

"Things after 9/11 got dicey," Zayn states, looking past Niall instead of directly at him to make this as easy as possible. "My parents didn't want my sister and I staying there. So I sought asylum here."

"You have a brother too, right?" Niall asks. "Henry?"

"Harry."

"Yeah, sorry," Niall apologizes as Zayn's eyes flicker over to his for a moment. "My memory can be pretty shit sometimes."

"Harry's not my real brother." Realizing there's no taking back what he's just said, Zayn prepares himself further before continuing on. "When I got to the UK, I was put into foster care. He and his family were the ones I got placed with, so I just refer to him as my brother because I consider him one."

They all sit in silence as Zayn's response hangs in the air, the tension-filled air.

"'M sorry that happened to you," Niall replies in the same sympathetic tone that never fails to rile Zayn up. "I can't even imagine."

"Yeah, you're right," he snaps. "You can't."

What was a room full of painful commiseration, is now rich with even more unsettling friction.

In a moment of bravery, Zayn steals a glance at Liam. The guilt eating away at the man's insides as he stares down at his lap, doesn't make for a pleasant sight. Joking seems like the only way for Zayn to salvage what sociability is left.

"What would the world have come to if there was a Pakistani named Harry? He could get caught holding the weapon and still get away with murder."

The punchline only brings in half-hearted laughter.

"Zayn's really into sports," Liam blurts out while shuffling himself over to Zayn's side of the couch, leaning his weight against him when he's comfortable.

Niall's eyebrow arches towards Zayn in surprise, "You are?"

"I am?"

Zayn's expression matches Niall's exactly, and is directed straight at Liam, waiting for a further explanation.

"Well, cricket," Liam sputters under pressure. "And ping pong."

"I don't really know anything about ping pong," Zayn amends, just in case Niall does and Liam's embellishment paints him in a corner he doesn't want to be in. "I'm just decent at it."

The longer Niall nurses his beer, the more Zayn's starting to feel like the night's over, he's up and ruined it. Liam did his best with the subject change to try and save the day, but it's no use.

Then, crossing one leg over the other, Niall asks, "What do you think about the Aussie cricket team?" and Zayn can breathe easy again.

Over the next hour, he talks more about cricket than he has since he left the homeland. Even though Zayn had spent a good portion of their first couple years getting to know each other explaining the game to him, Harry wouldn't be able to name a single position on a cricket team, gun to his head. As for Louis, at least he knows what the rules are, but he has zero interest in getting to know any more than that. So to say Niall's Zayn's new favourite person isn't all that farfetched. In fact, he's got _such_ strong global opinions on the game, that later on, Zayn even agrees to a double date with him and Poppy back at the ping pong lounge for Niall to judge his skills firsthand.

Right as Liam's about to switch the topic to football so he has something he can contribute to the conversation other than various forms of "wait, what do you mean? Why would that be a bad and/or good thing?", Zayn's mobile rings.

The screen reads: No Caller ID

He waits. If it rings twice, stops, then rings once more, he'll know it's a signal, not just a wrong number.

"Is everything ok?" Liam asks when the pattern finishes and Zayn begins to put together an encoded message like Louis' taught him.

"Something back home," he mutters, pausing his actions to look between the two that are watching him. "I'm really sorry, I'm gonna have to pull a Poppy and check it out."

The uneasiness in Liam's eyes when he asks Zayn if he wants a ride home affects the older man for all of three seconds before it dawns on him how helpful that would be in expediting what's being asked of him.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he tells Liam, standing up and exchanging a handshake with Niall while his driver goes off to find his keys. "Really good to meet you after so long."

"Yeah, you too."

But Zayn's already typing back to his colleagues to take Niall's reply into account.

**20 min**

He underestimates Liam's engine. It only takes them fifteen minutes to reach Zayn's flat, which he runs straight up to after sending Liam off with a quick thank you and kiss that almost makes Zayn second guess if helping his new friends is really worth it. But he thinks with his head and not his dick long enough to make it to his room where he changes into his black tracksuit before heading back outside.

In the side street next to his building, after making sure the coast is clear and no prying eyes are watching, Zayn conjures his primary mode of transportation off of his skin and through the mesh slits in his zip-up. Wasting no time, he hops through the UFO's metal door that automatically lets itself down and manipulates it to three times its current size as soon as it's up and over the surrounding buildings.

Four miles south, he picks up two villains, one that can shapeshift and another that has the ability to stretch his appendages in ways that make Zayn wince, in a deserted car park near the river, out past the docklands. It's the latter who's responsible for the SOS call, needing reliable conveyance to the power plant further down The Thames where he plans on harvesting energy for some nuclear crystal he has. Zayn lives by the principle "the less I know, the better" when it comes to learning about the motives behind his fellow supervillains' goals. He knows London won't be the bomb's target, he and the others Zayn helped escape the feds would've been warned to skip town if it was.

At the helm of his ship, all's quiet. From his captain's seat, there doesn't seem to be an ounce of bad luck in the air. Not since they drove up and Zayn beamed his comrade down into the open air plant that looks like a maze of tangled metal from above, and not for the past ten minutes that he's been keeping look out. Even if something did come up, he never leaves the saucer. He always makes it clear to everyone who looks to him for help, "if you want backup, bring it yourself. I'm here to help with impenetrable transport and intel. Sometimes. My source can't always be available. Other than that, don't think I won't leave you behind if I feel compromised".

On his infrared screen everything looks fine, so much so that Zayn almost takes his eyes off it, but then he sees a small red blip start to move.

" _Harami_ ," he curses under his breath, zooming in on the figure.

Next to him, the shapeshifter watches as the picture comes in clearer. "Fucking Red Valor..."

A flare shoots out the side of the saucer on Zayn's command as a sign to the villain below. _Get the fuck out, we have company_.

Zayn keeps his eye on the human outline jumping from one metal staircase to another, weaving in between gas pipes and bars that surround larger cylinders of who knows what kind of chemical concoctions to get to the higher levels of the plantation.

This isn't the first time Zayn's come up against London's favourite superhero, so he's more than aware of how the man can move what he likes with his mind, along with manipulating whatever that is. It's why Zayn's not at all surprised when he looks on as the hero melts a nearby steel ladder and shapes it into a spear to fight with. But he should've known better; the villain he's just hurled the three meter long harpoon at simply snakes around several railings, grabs hold of a safety bar, and then retracts his arm, contorting his body away from danger.

"I wonder what he looks like under that suit," the shapeshifter thinks aloud. "It's quite obnoxious, red and yellow."

Zayn exhales one hefty breath of laughter. "He's probably hideous. That's why he hides under it."

"One of these days, we should lure him somewhere and take him out. Our crew out numbers him, but it'd make things a lot easier, don't you think?"

Whoever's under the suit _is_ pesky, but Zayn thought he made it clear - he doesn't have an alliance with anyone, not even this current group of convicts. He runs on his own. The favours he's been doing for all of them is for the fun of it, because he's been stuck letting out his anger on the world far too long on his own that it's nice to be around others who praise his work rather than question it. And for networking purposes, just in case he needs something from them later on for a change. Once he helps everyone get the one thing they all want (except world domination. He's glad Red Valor got to that guy when he did because Zayn was not about to put those on the ship in danger just to rescue the lunatic while he taunted Buckingham Palace security a week ago), then Zayn's back to being a one-man team.

As he continues to watch the fight ensue on his screen, the idea of killing the mosquito that's always buzzing in the ear of evil drifts through Zayn's head.

He sends out a second flare before finally voicing his thoughts.

"It certainly couldn't hurt."


	2. Evil

* * *

**L**

* * *

Overhead, a sharp popping sound goes off. When Liam looks up, the sky's painted a bright red near the distinctive UFO that he's come to hate. His vision's directed upwards for no more than a second, just enough to make sure that he needn't be concerned that whatever's just exploded above him won't come crashing down. But that's a window plenty big for Mr. Stretch, as Liam likes to call him, to wind one of his arms around the labyrinth of metal they're surrounded by and push Liam off the platform he's standing on.

Tumbling down, Liam refrains from closing his eyes like his fight or flight instinct wants him to. He reaches out for the closest pipeline to grab a hold of to stop the freefall, but before he can, his head hits something from behind, cracking loudly like an egg being dropped on a slab of pavement. Liam's body jerks forward in response to the strike, his vision blacking out for a second. He can feel himself continue to fall further at a newly angled trajectory, but it's difficult to tap into reality.

His body lands on a flat patch of scaffolding with a heavy _thud_. Slowly, he blinks picture and colour back to his vision; along with it comes his situational awareness. Close to forty yards above him, Liam can make out Mr. Stretch going for the silver box that Liam had watched him hook up to the largest spire of the facility.

The image gives him enough energy to gain back his focus and begin the climb for a second time. To help him gain speed, Liam ditches zig-zagging from platform to platform and wields a nearby stair path into an elevated slide that he can run up. Along the way, he rips a fire extinguisher out of its glass confine with his mind and sends it hurtling towards the box Mr. Stretch has thrown into the air. But he misses. A beam of light from the UFO's underbelly sucked it up before the red cylinder had a chance to knock it off its course.

It's not the outcome he wanted, but there's still a chance for Liam to make an even bigger get.

As he runs, he channels all of his focus into flattening the stairs in front of him. Only when he deems himself high enough does Liam switch his attention to creating another spear out of the remaining steps and willing it up at his only target.

The tip hits the edge of the man's foot as it retracts back to normal length from being stretched several meters long. But there's no telling how much damage the weapon's done, the villain's beamed up into the UFO in the blink of an eye.

"No!" Liam yells into the night, watching as the saucer zips off, leaving him defeated and gasping for air.

Somewhere on the ground, far below, Liam can make out the sounds of police sirens. He'd rather not face the embarrassment of failing at his job as much as he'd like to stay where he is, catch his breath for a little bit longer and wait for his head to stop bleeding, he needs to get out of here.

Back home, he barely gets one foot through the front door before Niall's off the couch, hounding him.

"How'd it go?" The male stops dead in his tracks when he sees the amount of blood that's soaked through the mask Liam's taken off. "Shit," he mumbles, not able to tear his eyes away from the dark red that stands out from the suit's usual cardinal. "Are you alright?"

They both know the answer. Although this time, Liam will admit that he felt slightly woozy on the ride home as his skull pieced itself back together. The pool of blood had stopped advancing down his neck and shoulder blades by the time he got on the bike, but he had lost way more than he's used to. And with the laceration being so close to his brain, he considers himself lucky that all he's had to experience is a concussion. It's just a bummer that he's going to have to throw this in the wash as soon as possible to make sure it doesn't stain, he already did a load yesterday.

"I'm fine," Liam dismisses, making sure no blood drips from the latex to the floor as he kicks his shoes off.

Irrespective of the answer he was given, Niall still huddles close to inspect Liam's head. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." The certitude in Liam's voice gets his mate to back down and give him space to start stripping out of the rest of his suit. "I doubt by now there's more than a scar. It'll be gone in the morning."

On the walk to the washing machine, Liam lifts his legs higher than normal with each step in an effort to peel off the thick material that's stuck, molded over his calves, not at all bothered that his black briefs are out on display.

"Zayn seems alright."

"You opened with my most embarrassing moment," Liam reminds him. "Which, in turn, made my second."

"Should give a lad a proper heads up then. I wouldn't have whispered a word of it if I knew he was here."

Liam pulls off the rest of the brightly coloured Kevlar and shoves it in the machine, along with his mask. "I forgive you."

Because there isn't a person he'd ever not.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he tells Niall after tossing in a soap pellet and pushing the appropriate buttons to instruct the chamber to fill with water. "I'll take this out in the morning."

A faint "g'night" can be heard right before Liam shuts the bathroom door behind himself.

As he runs the shower water, waiting for it to heat up, he stands in front of the sink and cranes his neck to see if he can make out the damage that's been done in the mirror, but it's no use. All he can really discern is that some of the blood smeared from where the gash is and matted down certain areas of his hair. In the shower, he feels over the back of his head carefully, a bit nervous at what he might find, but like he thought, all that's left of the wound is a short line of raised skin the texture of a scab.

Under the water, different tints of red stain the pristine ceramic tub that Liam stands in the middle of. A few chunks of congealed blood join in the race down the drain with the ruddy streams. It's an unsettling sight, but Liam's seen worse.

Like the time he had to fend off a burglar and got tossed off a three story building; that was Liam's most severe injury to date. Similar to tonight, he remembers there being a sharp cracking noise the moment he landed on the ground. His arm broke in three different places. It could've been more than that, but the limb was such a mangled mess that Liam didn't bother to count the fracture points, his only goal was to get back to his newly purchased motorbike and speed home.

Those were in the early days of him moving to London, when he was just starting to use his powers to save others on a regular basis. Even though he'd done a lot of trial and error in Wolverhampton, he wasn't up to snuff yet with what his limits were. He was so used to only suffering cuts and bruises, that when his broken arm took overnight to heal, not seconds or minutes, he found it necessary to determine how much his body could take.

For the six months following his shattered bone incident, Liam put himself in harm's way a lot more than he normally would have. Bullets, knives, brass knuckles, whatever he came across, he let himself take, so long as he'd wind up victorious in the end. Some healed quicker than others, but the only thing that mattered is that they did. Contracting the average cold is what made him finally end the deliberate injuries. It also gave him the answer he had been searching for.

Two days into his cold, a drug exchange gone wrong left three in handcuffs and Liam with a few bruised ribs - nothing ten minutes of rest couldn't fix. Except this time, that wasn't the case. It took five whole days for the dark marks to fade away, the same amount of time it took for his antibiotics to run out.

His immune system, that's his ultimate weakness. It makes sense. Ever since he came to the conclusion that the "experimental" portion of his kidney treatment's what gave him his powers, Liam always just assumed that if he lost either of them for whatever reason, he'd lose his healing abilities, and therefore, the capability to live forever. He should've realized sooner that if his immune system were to be compromised, so would his kidneys.

Before he closes his eyes for the night, Liam shoots a text off to Zayn, letting him know that he hopes things with Louis and Harry turned out alright. When he wakes, he's met with an "all good, they're just knobs" and a perfectly good skull.

It goes on like this for weeks. Liam, helping to kill or put away more relentless villains, coming home with ill-favoured wounds, checking to make sure they're gone in the morning pointlessly, and taking ginger shots in between. He can handle the brutality of the various exchanges, but that doesn't stop Liam from wondering when they'll stop. On the bright side, they only take place late in the dark of night, strictly those he's without Zayn. Which is truly a blessing, because although Liam's always got righteousness on his mind, it's the promise of getting to see Zayn a couple times a week that really gets him through the ruthless battles.

But even that's got it's issues. As much as Niall playing dumb helped fill in the gaps of Zayn's refugee story, it also created a plethora of new ones. Most importantly, where's his little sister? Is she the reason he doesn't like talking about his past? Because she died in war? Or is he tight lipped on the rest of his childhood because of his PTSD that they both know is there, but neither will comment on?

However, Liam's not the type to dwell on the negative, he never has been and he doesn't plan on starting to be now. So instead of holding on to that information as fixed mercy, he frames it as significant context as to why Zayn gets so angry from time to time, yelling at strangers for being a waste to society only because they don't have his version of common sense. Or cutting others in line with the simple justification that "life's unfair, they're going to have to learn that eventually".

Sometimes, in those moments, Liam stops and thinks to himself, _Why am I falling in love with a person who treats others like they're unworthy?_

Because he refuses to deny that that's happening. Yet if he needs to do it, pump the breaks and spare himself from heartbreak down the line because the man he's beginning to love will go into a tirade if another stops to tie their shoes in front of him rather than moving to the side first, he will.

But then Zayn will show up at the centre unexpectedly with Ecuadorian chocolates, or use his single-use guest pass to show Liam the Member's Only room at the British Library (a monumental gesture Liam doesn't overlook the meaningfulness of coming from a private reader like Zayn), and Liam forgets all about how he vowed to shank a man in the shop one day because he asked for Zayn to repeat himself, his accent was too thick.

Liam's not exactly sure where things are going with Zayn, but as long as the other never hurts him, physically or emotionally, including his family and friends, then Liam plans on letting himself enjoy the fall.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Out of all the offices Zayn's ever worked in, none have ever come close to providing the array of snacks that Louis' current one does. And coffee. The coffee's to die for here. Which doesn't entirely make sense considering Zayn's industry of publishing seems to be the crowd worth impressing via hot drinks, not the software engineers who can't stand when you come too close to their laptops with so much as a bottle of Visine. Zayn knows from experience; it's how he's made friends with most of Louis' coworkers over the past couple years.

"Hey."

Startled by the abrupt greeting, Louis looks up from his corner workstation. Once he notices it's just Zayn, he relaxes, hitting save on his work before turning in his chair. "Why are you here?"

"Sorry," Zayn leans back to look at the name tag on the cubicle's partition. "I thought my best mate sat here, not some prosaic suit."

"I'm not a suit," Louis protests, arms crossing protectively over his chest as he does so.

"Then don't act like one." Checking out the random letters and numbers on the three screens Louis' got lined up next to each other gives Zayn a headache. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

"I can't," Louis replies firmly, eyeing the other's formal attire that contradicts his lax attitude. "And you shouldn't either. How have you not gotten fired yet?"

Zayn's eyes tear away from the monitors and focus back on his friend. "Because I can read like, five thousand words a minute. Same as you with lines of code. Don't think about it," he shrugs, "just leave."

"I have a boss."

"Not for long you don't," Zayn says, a sneaky smirk twisting its way onto his lips and immediately putting Louis in a panic.

"Zayn..."

He's pulled away from the desk area by a fistful of shirt that Louis grabs upon standing. After a few steps, Louis lets go, assuming Zayn will follow his fast-paced walking that leads them to a lounge area of colourful, oddly shaped chairs that are dispersed along a wide expanse of windows that overlook Shoreditch.

As Zayn sits in a teal throne, he looks around at the other workers taking a break from their projects, seeking comfort in a few minutes of quiet time. How is it that the nerdy software engineers get all the good stuff? Snacks, Work From Home Friday's, built-in office relaxation spaces. What gives?

"Now, what'd you do?" Louis asks, settled in the middle of a bright yellow bean bag chair.

Zayn really needs to change companies.

"Nothing bad," he answers, sighing when Louis continues to stare at him in royal disbelief. "I mean, in the grand scheme of things it's not." The menial clarification doesn't do much to waiver Louis' misgivings. "We came across each other in the break room when I was raiding your guys' sweets cabinet."

The older male's eyes divert to the satchel in Zayn's lap that's being patted in reference to where several packets of Haribo are hidden. "Are you still posing as someone from finance upstairs to get in?"

"Yeah," Zayn chuckles, humoured at just how easy it is to get people to believe what you want them to if you're confident enough. "Anyway, I made her some tea. Thickened up my accent and told her it was special, from my home country. Wherever she thinks that is. Racist," he mumbles. "You won't have to worry about seeing her for a few days. At a minimum."

Again, Louis looks down, staring at Zayn's left arm that's now exposed enough to show a faded lotus flower that's tattoo'd right below the bend in his elbow.

"You poisoned her," Louis deadpans.

"I only used one leaf. She's not going to die."

Leaning back in his free-forming seat, Louis casually surveys their surroundings. "Things aren't like how they used to be when we were younger. Going around, causing mischief for the hell of it. I'm going to be thirty this year."

"It's just turned May," Zayn scoffs. "Your birthday's in December, don't act like it's tomorrow."

"We're supposed to be grown up by now," Louis declares, "not skipping out on responsibilities to tag a building with stolen cans of spray paint."

"Then explain to me why you still get excited every time I ask you to hack something for me."

Louis' serious demeanor suffers a petite crack as he becomes unable to hold back a sly smile. "It's not irresponsible if I don't let it get in the way of my day job."

That's the Louis that Zayn's come to love calling his Partner In Crime. He's about to tell him to get a move on, there's a film he wants to catch that starts in an hour, but the other man doesn't look to be done giving his lecture.

"I've been worried about you lately," Louis declares once he finally gathers up the courage to do so.

Automatically Zayn's guards shoot up. "Did I just walk myself into my own intervention?" He asks, scrutinizing Louis' body language as though it'll give him insight into what else is yet to come.

"I think you need to cut down on your night time jaunts."

"Jaunts?" Zayn repeats facetiously, putting his wary feelings aside to poke fun at Louis' word choice.

"I do pay attention to that one word a day rip-off calendar you got me for Christmas believe it or not," Louis says very matter-of-factly.

"Thank god."

Just as Zayn's about to indulge himself and break out one of the packages of gummy bears in his bag, his mood's spoilt.

"Take a break from your Black Blood stuff, would you?" Louis presses. "Focus on what's good in your life so you can stop pointing the spotlight at the bad. It's all you've done since I've known you, and with negative influences like the gang you're currently running with-"

"I'm not running with them," Zayn interjects contentiously.

The two share an intense stare full of skepticism on Louis' part before the older man partially gives in. "Whatever you're doing," he restates. "It's only going to make you worse."

"That's not true."

What Zayn really means to say is, "I don't need you telling me how to act. That, I am old enough to do. I've _been_ old enough since I was nine." But he keeps his thoughts to himself to avoid a public blowout with one of the only people he cares to keep a good rapport with.

"It is," Louis insists. "Look, I understand you're frustrated with the world and what it's done to you. If I were in your position, I can't say I'd be that much different. But I've had my bot scouring the internet for Waliyha since we were teenagers and you told me about what happened. All you can do is wait for it to turn up something. Sooner or later, you're going to need to accept that and learn to live with your guilt, not act on it. At least, not in the way you do right now."

Just like that, steam starts to pour from Zayn's ears, a whistle piercing the air. This isn't what he came here for.

Before Zayn can storm away, Louis puts his hand on the other's knee. "You know I love you. And I know you know I'm only saying this because I do. But she wouldn't want you to live your life this way. Neither would your parents."

"Stop while you're ahead," Zayn warns him, body tense with indignation.

"If you ever want a clear future, you're going to have to start somewhere." As Louis leans back, Zayn's knee becomes free once more. "Use Liam as your motivation before he finds out he's way too good for you and leaves your ass. Who knows what sort of rampage you'll go on after that."

It's meant to be a joke, a clever tactic so that Zayn leaves the conversation with a positive taste in his mouth, but he doesn't. He's still puckering from the bitterness in the lift.

It's not surprising in the least that he winds up at Liam's place of work soon after leaving Louis'. He picks up some bento boxes for the two of them to share, but instead of resetting his energy through a refreshing meal alongside a handsome face, he gets scolded for showing up to a centre for homeless youth with a lunch that costs the same as their entire food budget for the week. From then on (because similar to Louis, he wants to stay on Liam's good side), any time Zayn does make the trip over from his office to eat with him, he makes sure to leave his wallet in his pocket and opt-in for whatever's on the centre's menu for the day.

Once in a while, he talks to the others at the mile-long table and listens to what's been thrown on their plate for that day, which oftentimes sounds like the same amount Zayn has on his for a week. But a majority of the time, he watches how Liam interacts with those that have come to seek an alternative to malnutrition. How he always manages to figure out a segment of their life that's promising, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Liam's the one who handles the aftermath of the world's unfairness, deals with the results of the inhabitants that've been chewed up and spit out by it. He doesn't let it get to him like Zayn does, and the clearer that becomes to the villain, the more he finds his daydreams revolving around what that says about him. And his future, courtesy of Louis.

Except, when it comes to the latter, there's not much to dissect. Zayn's never thought past rising to the top of a publishing house and accumulating a family along the way.

So, he plays devil's advocate like his lovely best friend has tricked him into doing.

What if he gets everything he wants? All of his two, vague aspirations. And for the hell of it, with Liam. He couldn't keep killing people as a Father, letting out his aggression after he's tucked his kids in and kissed Liam goodnight like he's some sort of zoo animal who gets the keys to his cage, but only after he's made sure his family's taken care of. Could he? What underlying message would that hold? That he found someone he loved so much that he was willing to ask them to marry him while also keeping up a double life on the side? If Liam somehow found out on his own accord, would he doubt how happy he makes Zayn since the man needs to go out and unleash his suppressed anger that's gathered throughout the day? He may not have a terribly large conscience, but there's no way Zayn would be able to live with himself if the imagery he's created of Liam, heartbroken and confused on why he isn't good enough, ever became a reality.

Louis' right. Zayn would never admit that to him, but it's true. For his future to include a stable family, he's gotta start working on himself now. But because Zayn's only as capable as he is prepared, all that winds up looking like is him throwing himself into his newly defined relationship with all that he has. Which means any time his fellow supervillains call him for aid, he turns them down with assorted versions of "sorry, you're going to have to figure this one out on your own. I've already got plans".

After the first few times, he can tell they're starting to get suspicious, but Zayn's not lying. He really does have plans. Some involve taking Liam out to dinner and watching him from across various tables talk elegantly about his passion of helping the disadvantaged. Other times, he's busy keeping a straight face while Liam babbles on about his latest online video find, like one demonstrating how it's possible to remove earwax by inserting a candle into your ear canal and setting it on fire. Evidently, the heat loosens the wax in your ear and the high temperature suctions it out. Zayn calls anyone who tries it a lunatic. Liam hits submit on his online order.

Two nights later, Zayn rejects a heist and is huddled over Liam's head, tilted at a ninety degree angle, arguing that this isn't going to end well. He's stuck in a trance, holding a lighter up to the end of the candle for ages until Liam's threat that he'll do it himself if Zayn doesn't get a move on creates a scary enough visual that Zayn finally just presses the flame to the wick. But that doesn't stop his heart from nearly beating out of his chest the entire time he merely stands by with a cup of water, waiting until the thin film wrapped around the candle burns down to the red line indicated. Miraculously, Liam comes out unscathed. Zayn's more scarred from the whole experience than he is, gagging at the brown pieces of gook that fall out of the wax once the flame's gone out. Liam's all wide smile and matching eyes, calling the speckles of buildup "sick!".

It's that night, and the night Zayn cooked Liam a homemade meal when he had the flat to himself, Louis and Harry up North celebrating the former's twin sisters' birthday, that he's actually a little glad he has all these plans to use as excuses to ditch the "gang".

Because Liam's _good_ , plain and simple. For Zayn, for the world, for the moment, for the future Louis' got him thinking about. He's a ball of neverending positivity and optimism that only sometimes gets under Zayn's skin. The other eighty percent of the time, Liam's a calming agent with his bunched up smile as mesmerizing as his bonafide charisma and goofball tendencies that show themselves every once and awhile.

Like when he almost enters himself into a spaghetti eating contest at the last second while on a night time stroll, one that fills Zayn with more worry than he's used to feeling about the other villains finding out he's pushing them to the side for romance. Luckily, Liam drags them inside a restaurant that he notices has more noise coming from inside than normal and takes them away from being so out in the open. It's a lot of, "but I can do it Zayn!" "no, you fucking can't babe" "yes I can! I love spaghetti!", but in the end, Zayn wins out over Liam's enthusiastic interest and they stay standing in the spectators-only area. A decision that has Zayn grinning all the way back to Liam's flat, smug at the fact that the man has vowed to hold off on eating pasta altogether after nearly being secondhand sick watching how much the winner of the competition ultimately put away.

Over the course of the next month, memories like these rack up, staggeringly so for Zayn. He can't remember a time when he had this much fun dating someone, but the problem lies within the grey area. The time when Zayn's neither busy with work, nor trying to beat Louis in FIFA, nor keeping Liam on his toes. When he has to sleep alone, without the peace of mind that even if he's plagued with nightmares for a few hours that night, the strong arm wrapped around his toothpick body will keep him safe. In those periods of solitude where he has no choice but to live with himself, Zayn struggles. Really, really struggles.

He feels like he's going insane. It wouldn't be an impossibility. Maybe this little experiment of trying to be normal has actually just proven that Zayn's incapable of holding back from acting on his anger; it doesn't go away the less he thinks about it, rather the opposite. It becomes pent up, like the carbonation pressure that accumulates when you shake a bottle of soda. Except, Zayn's not a Coke ready to burst because you accidentally dropped it bringing the groceries in from the car. He's been operating more along the lines of a bottle of Coke whose cap has been taken off for a kid to have a place to drop their Mentos in.

He has to do _more_ than just trip the waiter who points out Liam's got a stain on his tie. The man deserves to have his vocal box permanently damaged like the guy who hit on Liam at the ping pong lounge got done to him the next day.

The rage that his past has instilled in him suffocates Zayn, and even though he's managed to pull it together in between triggers, there comes a day when that's just no longer feasible.

**Fifty Dead In Drone Bombing Outside Iraqi Mosque**

Zayn hardly looks up from his phone to see which train platform he needs to switch to that will take him to Westminster Mindfulness instead of Royal Phoenix Community Centre.

Within the medical building, room 245 receives three hearty knocks before Zayn turns the handle and walks straight in.

Directly to his left sits a woman in her late-thirties. She's sitting in the middle of a plush sofa that matches the sage colour scheme of the spacious office. With her eyes on him, Zayn can see that the flowing tears and the streaks of mascara painting her cheeks aren't new, her hysterics started a while ago.

"Zayn!" The power behind Harry's voice makes Zayn break eye contact with the woman and look at where his brother's sitting a couple meters away from her in a mid-century armchair, folder balancing steady in his lap. He's quite possibly the most angry Zayn's ever seen him. "This is completely unacceptable," he denounces.

Watching Harry's green irises start to become overshadowed by blackness should make Zayn feel a lot more scared than he is. "It's an emergency."

"I don't care," Harry argues furiously. "I'm with a patient."

"But..." Feigning innocence, like a child who can't grasp why they're being scolded at, Zayn tilts his head just a tad. "I knocked."

His act looks to blow one of Harry's gaskets, but the sniffling woman in the room appears to be finding Zayn's intrusion as a blessing in disguise.

"It's ok," she reassures Harry, wiping at her eyes with the balled-up tissue she's been clutching. "I think I've had enough for today. We only have ten minutes left anyway." The satisfied smirk on Zayn's face from setting off his brother grows as the woman grabs her purse and gets up to leave. "Thank you Dr. Styles. I'll see you next week."

Zayn enters the room from beneath the doorway to make space for her to exit while Harry gets out of his seat to escort her along the way.

"Call if you need anything. Take care."

"Yeah," Zayn calls after her, "take care."

In lieu of throwing Zayn against the wall like his rigid disposition might suggest, Harry simply walks around the other side of his desk so as to avoid Zayn's standing figure entirely after shutting the door leaves the two of them alone.

"This is out of line," he seethes, "even for you. Where's Martha?"

The mention of the practice's receptionist doesn't excite Zayn, rather it bores him by how easy her weakness was to figure out. A desk full of whisker decorations doesn't leave much to the imagination.

"Told her there was a dying cat in the alley that needed help," he replies, tossing his bag to the side and taking a seat in the middle of the now vacant sofa while Harry ruffles through an open drawer in his extensive credenza that lines up perfectly behind the office's oak desk.

"This is my place of work Zayn. One that revolves around confidentiality." As if Zayn hasn't heard that one before. "I can't have you bursting through the door every time you have an issue."

"You act like I do this every day," Zayn gripes. "This is the first time I've visited you at your office since you got this job and I wanted to surprise you with decorations to make the place more your own."

It's been almost two years since Harry's gone from his position working under another psychologist after his PhD, to having an office and patients of his own. Every person in their family and extended circle of friends had been incredibly proud of Harry's crowning achievement, but Zayn wanted to do a little more than a one pound greeting card.

"You plastered the same photo of us, age eleven, where you were shoving straws up my nose, on every surface in here."

"And?" Zayn challenges, wrapping one arm around the back of the couch. "Were you surprised?"

There's no immediate response, only more shuffling of papers.

"What's your emergency?" Zayn smirks at the small victory while Harry finishes up finding whatever he's looking for. "I've got fifteen minutes until my next patient." The curly-haired man looks over his shoulder briefly, "And why aren't you at work?"

"I had a chat with Louis about a month ago that was _supposed_ to be surface level," Zayn starts, gazing down at his grey trousers as he recalls the miniature ambush.

"Is he ok?"

"He brought up my sister, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about what he said since."

"Zayn, is Louis ok?"

Harry's concern grabs Zayn's attention, and when he looks up, he's surprised to see that the man's already sitting in his chair. "What?" Running the question back in his head, he nods apathetically. "Yeah, yeah, he's fine."

The panic in Harry's expression falls as his body sinks into his chair, an annoyed sigh being exhaled as he does, like he should've known better than to assume Zayn was actually here to have a two-way conversation. "What'd he say?"

"That I should get over what happened and stop using it as an excuse to act out." Staring up from the manila folder in his hands, Harry gives Zayn a pointed look, forcing a minor footnote. "In so many words."

"And what do you think about that?"

"I tried," Zayn snaps, going from zero to one hundred in the blink of an eye. "I spent as much time as I could preoccupying myself with Liam, and reading, and you two, and _not_ allowing my threats to go beyond words, but I can't do it anymore. I can't stand by while people go along living in blissful ignorance." He clenches his jaw, "They don't deserve it!"

"What you went through," Harry says calmly, "no one should have to experience."

Memories of his days in the unmarked industrial van, traveling from country to country, hiding under the car's back flooring when they got to the border of one that they couldn't forge a visa for, play back in Zayn's mind.

Harry adds, "Especially not as a child."

_Sitting in the van around him are his sister and the four other girls they were traveling with. They've got three dolls between them, four if you include Waliyha's stuffed tiger. Zayn's stuck with his books, though by the time they reach Ukraine three days after leaving Pakistan, he's finished them all; there's not much else to do when you're only allowed out of a three square meter space to use the bathroom at a petrol station every four or five hours._

"You had no idea what was going to happen."

_Kyiv's the first place they properly stop at. Just getting to take a bath excites Zayn, nevermind being able to eat new foods. And in a flat with ample space? It shouldn't be a luxury, but it is. Even if the cherry drink he's served with dinner doesn't taste all that great and makes him sleepy soon after._

"And even if you did, you couldn't have stopped it."

_He doesn't remember falling asleep, nor putting himself to bed on a solid mattress, not a metal floor, rumbling through the night. It's comfortable, to the point that he doesn't question how he got there, or why he's alone. Somewhere in the flat he can hear Badar and other deep voices talking - "and the boy?" "there's not as high of a demand for boys as there are for virgin girls" "labour work? I don't want to have to take him all the way" "he's too skinny, no one would bid on him" - but Zayn's too warm, and cozy for any of it to compute, so he drifts back to sleep._

"I know you've always taken responsibility for it, but that's not rational."

_Waking up doesn't feel as refreshing as Zayn thought it would. He still feels groggy, like there's something weighing his tiny body down. He'll take a nap in the van, it'll make the day go by faster. And it does. Until Badar tells him to get under the floorboard, they're at the border. Then it becomes overtly clear that Waliyha and the other girls aren't meeting them there in another car like Badar told him they would that morning._

_Crossing over into Poland is the hardest Zayn's ever had to concentrate on not exposing his whereabouts. His tears of anguish are simply too difficult to hold back._

"Harboring guilt in this situation isn't logical because the situation wasn't."

_For two days, all Zayn does is beg Badar to turn around. Waliyha won't be able to get into the UK like he promises if she doesn't have the paperwork in Zayn's backpack that their father said they needed. But then, neither does Zayn when Badar eventually puts him on a train in Paris and tells him to take what he needs from the rucksack, he'll put the bag with Zayn's other luggage up where he's sitting in a different carriage. The boy takes out his books, all of which he transferred from his suitcase the morning after they left home, unsure of how long the ride will be. When the train pulls into St. Pancreas Station, Zayn sits on one of the platform benches and waits for Badar to surface from the crowds. And waits. And waits. And waits._

"You've been running on a pretense that your parents would hate you, but neither of us know if that would be true or not."

_After the next train comes and goes with no familiar face to greet him with an apology for missing the original trip, a conductor approaches Zayn and asks him where his parents are. Out of fear, he nearly speaks in Urdu to scare them off, but if they find someone to translate (Zayn's not sure how many people in London speak Urdu, so there's no telling how likely that is), he'd be dead in the water. He can't let his parents know that he didn't keep Waliyha safe._

_"They're dead," he tells her, compiling all of his strength to keep a calm composure. At this point, that's the least he can do to be a man like his father asked of him. He's failed him in every other aspect of the word._

"Anyone who knows your story would agree that your anger is valid. What's not, is your addiction to it."

Zayn's head whips forward from where he'd gotten lost in his head staring out the window at the rare, cloudless London sky. "I'm not addicted to being angry!" he exclaims. "Are you fucking crazy?" Impassioned by the accusation, Zayn's body leans forward as he speaks. "There's not a day that goes by where I wish I could be like everyone else - undisturbed by the little things. But I can't! I see fault in everything!"

Harry stays poised, irrespective of the shouting that's being aimed directly at, and for him. "I'm not saying you enjoy it," he replies.

"Then what?" Zayn demands, heart rate picking up the deeper his infected sore gets prodded at.

It only gets faster when, under his breath, Harry races through his explanation of "you don't have the same defenses that are normally built in to everyone else". It's his way of not confining his thoughts to his head, even though he knows it won't go appreciated. Zayn's witnessed it too many times in his life to misinterpret it, but that doesn't mean it makes him any less frustrated.

"What'd Louis offer up as the solution?" Harry asks clearly.

"Marry Liam." Zayn sighs when his brother's passiveness turns to cynicism, "In so many words."

"Trading one addiction for another can sometimes be what's best for a person to cope with a situation, but only if it's constructively helpful." Anymore of this theoretical bullshit and Zayn's out. "You need to find a therapist to work on this with you."

"I have-"

"When you're ready, I will refer you to someone I know who would be a good match." With both eyebrows raised in a plea for Zayn to take him seriously, Harry drives his point home. "That person. Is not. Me."

There's no doubt in Zayn's mind that the man staring back at him, waiting for some sort of sarcastic remark to be hurled back in response to his punched out declaration, has his best interests at heart. But Zayn's also not an idiot. He knows the real reason Harry isn't engaged is because he's too driven by guilt to look over Zayn's stability to up and leave him. Zayn doesn't need to ask, it goes without saying that Louis can see it plain as day too. Hell, with how perceptive Liam is, he probably knows it as well. It's a responsibility that no adult should feel like they owe another, and for that reason, Zayn pretends like it doesn't exist.

He shifts in his seat, pushing the material of his trousers further down his thighs as he does. "I found out I love him."

For the first time since Zayn barged in, humour enters Harry's tone of voice. "You _found out_?"

"The other night, when he came over," Zayn calls to the other's mind, "it's because I rang him. You were on Facetime with Mum and Dad, Louis was with you. I was in my room reading and my heart started to heat up." He pats the area on his right hip where the tattoo sits to bring clarity to his words. "It couldn't have been any of you."

Now that he's aware of the meaning behind "found out", Harry turns sympathetic towards the man they're speaking of. "Is he ok?"

"It was the anniversary of his grandmother's death. When I called, he was driving around, trying to take his mind off it." Speaking without Liam there makes Zayn feel like he's weirdly undermining their trust, so he leaves it at, "The distress was too much for him."

It was only four days ago, but Zayn can still remember how quickly Liam had removed his helmet to plaster himself against the older male's body. It took Zayn getting him into his room to really be able to tell how overcome by sadness Liam truly was at the day's date. He had offered to go out and get chocolate, make him tea, run him a bath, anything to lift his boyfriend's spirits and to get the searing heat to leave his hip, but Liam wanted none of it, just sleep. By the time morning had come around, the heart that had felt like a third degree burn the night before had lessened to that of a light heating pad. It wasn't comfortable, but Zayn had no choice but to live with it as they found Liam the most oversized clothing Zayn owned to wear to work that day. By the time Liam had dropped him off at work, the tattoo had finally quieted itself.

"Have you told him?" Harry asks.

"Has Louis proposed yet?"

That familiar annoyance shrouded in fondness comes across in Harry's eyes that are being redirected down at his folder, hint of a smile on his lips. "You should tell him."

"If you say so, doctor." Before Harry can reprimand him, Zayn quickly hoists himself off the couch with his bag in hand and places a swift kiss to his brother's hair. "Good session," he adds as he detaches himself.

"I'm not your therapist!" Harry yells.

But Zayn's already out the door.

\-----------------------------------

On most days, the sound of fingers tapping away on a keyboard annoys Zayn to no end. Even his own. Irrespective of where he's working from, whether it be in his godforsaken office or the British Library, he always works with his headphones on. And when you've got a magical pair tattooed on the inside of your arm, able to block out every sound imaginable, it's odd having to go without. But laying against Liam's right arm would've been right awkward if he wore a clunky piece of metal on his head just to cut out the clicking noises of the man writing up a funds proposal; Zayn would rather subject himself to the infrequent pitter patter while he reads his new book than give up the pleasant cushion of his boyfriend's body.

Besides the occasional scraping of paper against skin when Zayn turns the page and Liam's clicking, the flat hasn't been this quiet in months. If Harry's not banging pots and pans together in the kitchen, then Louis' shouting down his headset at whichever unfortunate soul got matched up with him for that night's video game of choice. Zayn's mind may not ever be quiet, but his tendencies are nothing but subtle, catlike. With the two out for a date night that _doesn't_ consist of takeaway and Netflix, the stillness that's ringing throughout the flat gives Zayn a peek into what he can look forward to when he's able to afford to live in London on his own one day. When he takes over his publishing empire.

He'll buy a sizable townhouse in a central borough of the city that's primarily made up of upscale units and family-owned restaurants; maybe Notting Hill. It'll most definitely have an office for him to work peacefully from, and perhaps a garage. Maybe he'd learn how to drive for no other reason than to purchase a ridiculously fancy car to park inside. Unquestionably, there'd be a spacious back garden for Zeus and Hera to play around in - both of which Liam nearly exposed, within minutes of arriving that night.

"Do you have a dog?" He'd asked after surfacing from Zayn's room where he'd changed out of his work clothes and into something comfortable from his duffle bag.

Zayn had thought it such a random question to ask as he portioned out their dinner of homemade chicken biryani considering it wasn't Liam's first time coming over, nevermind the fact that owning a pet's something Zayn would've surely brought up by now if it was true. But then he looked up and saw the blue silicone chew toy that Liam was holding and his heart sank.

"An _orange_ dog?" Liam revised, perplexed at the unusual coloured fur that was coating one of the sofa arms.

Immediately, Zayn dropped his spoon and rushed to his room for a lint brush. "Um, no. We pet sit for the neighbors. They've got a cat." He and Liam stared at the toy that was still in the younger man's hand when he returned to the living room with the roll. "Who likes dog toys," Zayn added frivolously. "I don't know, go figure."

But most importantly, Zayn's future house would have a library. His own quiet space where he could sit on the floor like he did when he was young and read to his heart's content.

"I never-"

The suddenness and vibrations from Liam's deep voice can be felt along Zayn's shoulder blades, and almost make him jump out of his skin.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Liam apologizes profusely, moving his laptop off of where he was balancing it on his thighs to the floor and then coaxing Zayn to lay his head in its place.

"It's alright," the older man reassures him, closing his book on his left thumb and letting himself be guided to shelter. "I was just used to only hearing your keyboard."

"Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll whisper or tap on you first next time."

Zayn nearly rolls his eyes as he looks up at Liam's overly sorrowful expression staring down at him. "Don't be ridiculous. What'd you never?"

"I was going to say," Liam's gaze trails over to where Zayn's book rests atop his navel, "I never knew that reading Urdu would mean you turned the pages left to right."

 _How long have you been watching me?_ is the first thing that comes to Zayn's mind when he processes Liam's observation. Then, _have I been daydreaming that long to not have noticed you stop typing?_

"You read right to left," he replies, opening his book back up and trailing one of his fingers along the scripture in the direction he's indicated. "So you turn the pages backwards to English too."

"What does it say?"

"I told you, it's about a farmer."

"I know, but I mean, what do the letters say."

Brow creased in confusion, Zayn looks away from the book and back up to Liam. "You want me to read it out loud to you?"

Liam points to one of the lines randomly, "What's this?"

The name of the letter Liam's finger lands on races to the front of Zayn's mind so fast that he can't stop it, it's automatic. "Kaf. It's like the 'c' sound in cafe."

After trying out the pronunciation for himself several times, Liam asks for another letter on the opposite page.

"That's Kaf too," Zayn chuckles.

"What?" In utter disbelief, Liam squints at where his finger just dropped from. "No it's not. It's got a little circle with it," he points out, "the other one didn't."

From the way that Liam's finger pushes against the page, adamant that his words are correct, to the way he's concentrating on translating the script as though the harder he studies it, the more it'll make sense, the man's nothing short of endearing.

"The letters change what they look like depending on if they're at the beginning, middle, or end of a word," Zayn teaches him.

Once it occurs to Liam that for Zayn's statement to be true, each letter of the alphabet has to have three separate versions, he loses his mind. He's like an excitable child, picking out more letters with no rhyme or reason and grinning like mad when Zayn explains the sound it makes as if it's some sort of hidden code only Zayn knows how to crack. They do come across one discrepancy however: the letter "qaf". Liam just won't accept that there's any difference between how it sounds and how the letter they started with sounds, even after Zayn repeats himself about ten times, along with giving him the comparison between the "c" in cafe and the "c" in cough. To Liam, they're identical.

"Are you going to argue with a native speaker about their own language?" Zayn quips, closing his book on his placeholder thumb again. "English does it too. Kite, cat. Practically the same sounds, but different letters."

The concept gives Liam a real run for his money, effectively shutting him up for a bit while he mulls it over. "It's so different," he responds after mouthing the two English examples to himself a handful of times. "Some of the words look like snakes with all the long, bended lines."

Gathering strength from his core, Zayn sits up, smirking when he grabs his bookmark from off the ground where he laid it prior to finding his human pillow. "You'll get yourself into trouble insulting scripture like that."

"I didn't mean it in a bad way!" Liam's urgent tone doesn't guilt Zayn's smile into falling as he walks to the kitchen. "I just find it so crazy that there are words there, when I just see..."

It takes Zayn looking through two cabinets for anything good to nibble on before he says what Liam's been trying to find a replacement for, "snakes".

"Oddly shaped strokes," Liam counters tastefully, body now twisted around in order to watch Zayn move on to the fridge. "What's the word for snake?"

"Saanp."

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, Zayn slaps his left hand over his right shoulder to prevent the aptly named tattoo from thinking it's being called out.

"What are you looking for?" Liam asks after reciting the foreign word like a short mantra in an effort to get it to stick.

"A snack." A blur of red from one of the bottom produce drawers catches Zayn's attention. "Do you want an apple?"

"Do you have peanut butter we can dip it in? I love peanut butter."

"Uh, no." It's such an unexpected, unique request that Zayn's a bit lost for what could be used as a replacement. The time on the microwave shows that the Tesco's at the end of the street is still open; Kiwi can fetch him a jar. "I think I remember the last time I was over at the neighbors, looking after the cat," Zayn adds for good measure, "they had some. I can go ask."

"No, it's not a big deal," Liam protests, rounding the back of the couch and coming to see the fruit that's been pulled out of the fridge.

"You want some, I'll get you some," Zayn insists with a kiss to the man's cheek as he passes him to where his shoes are by the door. "Wait here."

"Where're your knives? I'll cut these up."

"Farthest drawer on the left."

Slipping out into the hallway, Zayn ventures down to the window at its end, cracking it open just enough for his bird's body to be able to slip through. "Peanut butter," he instructs the animal once it's materialized in front of him. "Fast."

The fantail bird chirps twice and then dives out into the open, only to return in less than two minutes. It doesn't even wait for any kind of praise, just drops the jar in Zayn's hands and jumps back down into the exposed skin at the back of Zayn's hoodie.

"You're in luck," the man rejoices, walking back into the flat. "They just got a new jar and said I could keep it."

He's about to ask how much he thinks Liam can eat of it in one sitting as a joke, but when he turns around after kicking his shoes off, his face drops. The counter near the sink looks like it's been bathed in blood, Liam's left hand the obvious source turning the running water red.

"It's not that bad," Liam says when he looks over his shoulder at a gawking Zayn.

"Not that bad?" Zayn repeats, rushing to the other's side. "It looks like you stabbed someone in here." _I would know._

"I wasn't paying attention and nicked myself."

Tilting his hand out of the water, proves Liam's words to be true. The cut's right in the crease between his thumb and pointer finger, but it's relatively small given how much blood there is to show for it. Something doesn't add up. Even if it had been bleeding since Zayn left, there's no way a cut that surface level could equate to this much of a mess. And how the fuck did he not feel his tattoo heat up from this? When he glances up, it doesn't even look like Liam's in an ounce of pain.

"Keep it there," he advises skeptically, "I'll get you something to stop the bleeding."

The linen closet's got a small first aid kit in it, full of various sized plasters and disinfectants, but when Zayn leans his body forward into the shallow space, he forgoes the white box and reaches under his hoodie. From within his right arm hole he pulls out a bandana, one that's normally wrapped around his elbow by intricate linework.

"Here," Zayn motions for the man to surrender his injury back at the sink. "Let me see it."

Without water beating down on the open skin, it's easy to see that the bleeding has practically stopped. _Remarkable_. That's the only thought that runs through Zayn's mind as he wraps the black and white paisley cloth around Liam's hand. "There," he says while tying a secure knot to keep the bandana in place. "Like one huge plaster. The compression will help."

No blood soaks through the material as Liam thanks him and flexes to get used to the feel. Nor will any in the future. Zayn knows from experience that anything underneath that bandana will be healed in no time, even fractured bones if it's fully spread out over the area. It may be risky, considering Liam could take it off in as little as a few minutes and see his hand completely healed, no scar in sight, but Zayn's willing to take that risk if it means his better half will fully recover.

"Got any more apples?" Liam asks with a sheepish smile when Zayn notices the slices off to the side are bloodied.

"Those were it," he replies, feeling slightly guilty at having made his eight gram bird fetch a four hundred sixty gram container for nothing.

"We can eat it plain." Liam takes a few steps to the side and grabs a spoon out of the utensils drawer that's still partially ajar. "It's a good source of protein."

So it may be, but that doesn't mean Zayn can handle its richness alone. He bows out after only one spoonful. It takes Liam two episodes of Gogglebox to put down the handed over spoon. Practically half of the container's gone. It'd be more if the younger man didn't keep yawning and Zayn insist they call it a night.

In his room, he slides his current read back in its place amongst the others whose spines are decorated in beautiful waves of scripture and not blocked out letters.

A warm presence comes up behind him.

"Which one's your favourite?"

It should be a hard question to answer, but it's not. Zayn knows exactly which of the non-English titles is his top choice, pulling out the tiniest of them all to show him. "My first chapter book." On the cover, a young boy sits with his back against the trunk of a Mulberry tree, wearing traditional East Asian garb. "I finished it when I was five." The spine lets out a sharp _crack!_ as Zayn opens the book, his name written on the inside of the cover in poor, shaky handwriting. "It's about a boy's adventures during one of the hottest summers in history." As he flicks through the pages, towards the back he can feel the edges of worn out cardstock start to slip out, the mandala lining just barely visible before Zayn slides it back in safely and returns the book to its slot on the shelf. "Back then, it felt like every summer was the hottest in history."

"Do you miss it?"

Zayn's fond smile stays facing forward towards his incredible collection of novels. For a brief moment, he thinks back to what the rough bark of a Mulberry tree feels like. Then he shakes his head comically, stepping away from the crowded bookshelf and towards his bed.

"Fuck no," he snickers, "those summers were scorching hot. Wouldn't wish one of them on my worst enemy."

Although...death by heat? He'd have to think about that one the next time he found himself in need of a new torturing method.

"No," Liam replies hurriedly, "I mean Pakistan."

Acting so brazenly with his inner thoughts is almost as risky for Liam as it is for Zayn to lend him his bandana, and when Zayn turns around in his spot, joggers halfway down his legs, he can tell Liam's well aware of that; the man's confidence is merely a ploy.

"That will always be my home," Zayn responds after he finds Liam's courage worthy of an honest answer. He nearly goes into a small explanation of how, just because you move to another country and stay long enough that eventually your time back home becomes surpassed by your years in the new place, doesn't mean you'll ever feel that in your identity. That Zayn will never be a British Pakistani. That even if he dies here, he'll always be a British _ized_ Pakistani in his blood. But Liam wouldn't understand that, and it's something so visceral to Zayn, that he doesn't want to have to explain it either, so he simply adds, "I miss it every day". Because that's as true and as powerful as any lengthy speech he could ever give.

He sits in his boxers at the edge of his mattress, plugging in his phone to charge on the bed's only side table.

"Do you think you'll go back eventually?" Liam presses cautiously, yet full of inquisition. "To live? You know, for good?"

In the upper right hand corner of his screen, a lightning bolt shows up over the battery icon, confirming its charge is building up. Zayn stares at it pensively.

"I have dual citizenship here," he makes known. "I have since I was sixteen. The Queen's not going to kick me out."

No distinct giggle comes from the other side of the bed, just a prudent, "But do you want to stay?"

Locking the phone screen to black leaves Zayn with a meek outline of his face staring back at him. He sets the device off onto the table, pulls his hoodie over his head, and climbs under the covers. There's already a body there waiting for him, staring at him anxiously. Zayn can tell from the way Liam's eyes dart around his face in the dimly lit room that he's searching for a hint that he needs to prepare himself for the worst.

"Are you worried I'm going to leave you?" Zayn counters, void of any sarcasm.

"No." All the jumbled nerves in Liam's expression disappear as the notion sets in and reflect his new rumination. "I didn't even think of that."

"Then why'd you ask?" Zayn questions, examining him carefully to get the full picture in case this is the one answer Liam chooses to debut his lying skills with.

"Because you didn't say _this_ is your home," the younger male recounts, voice thick with uncertain emotion. "I want you to be happy," he expresses strongly.

Usually Liam's the type to force eye contact when all Zayn wants to do is avoid giving way to his inner thoughts. Now, the table's are turned and Liam's the private one, flicking his eyes down to Zayn's neck and prohibiting the other from gauging his level of vulnerability at having admitted something so pure.

Three words sit at the tip of Zayn's tongue that he knows would erase any insecurities Liam has. He could safeguard the man from feeling any doubts when it came to their relationship or Zayn's happiness by just letting them loose. Because that's what Liam's become - certain. Zayn's sanity, his light at the end of a tunnel. It may be a never ending tunnel, but at least he can live inside it with a shadow.

"That's what I'm keeping you around for," he winds up telling Liam, kissing him softly when that seems to be as good of an answer as any other by the smile that spreads across the man's thin lips.

* * *

**L**

* * *

Like always, Liam wakes up before Zayn.

His eyes continue to blink lazily as he takes in his surroundings, including the slumbering man next to him, face smashed into his pillow like he's a hungover teen. He's about to bring his hand up to push Zayn's hair off his forehead, but he stops as soon as he registers the bandana that's wrapped around his left hand. Quickly, he peeks under the cloth to make sure that the cut's healed, tightening it once his assumptions are proven correct. He'll keep the handkerchief on until he leaves; there's no believable excuse he could give for how the skin closed up in less than twelve hours if Zayn saw. The look on his face at having walked in while the cut was already practically invisible was close call enough.

Beyond Zayn's resting figure is the only window in the room. Every time he's stayed over, it's been covered by unsightly grey drapes. And while today's no different, some sunlight has managed to squeeze its way through the minimal gap where the two ends of the curtain don't perfectly meet. The yellow line runs along Zayn's skin that's become exposed from his fight with the duvet throughout the night, painting his already olive skin with an even more radiant glow.

Laying like this, he's softer than someone might think him capable when awake. Open, just like how he made himself the previous evening, entertaining Liam's engagement with his culture as if there weren't barriers around it leading up to that point. Truth be told, Liam could do without learning Urdu. It's fascinating in its appearance, but way more complicated than he could've ever imagined when broken down. It's the uncensensored freedom that comes with living your true self that Liam had been after with his boyfriend, and now that he's managed to pry open that door a little wider, he hopes that the feeling of safety he's fostered in Zayn to let that happen, grows.

But secretly, Liam's extremely grateful that Zayn speaks English as well as he does (better than him even), because even though he loves how the man wakes up in such a drowsy haze sometimes that the first few words out of his mouth are Urdu only realizing what he's done when he doesn't get a response back, Liam would rather not have to learn another language just to find out what sort of snarky comments his boyfriend's making right in front of him to others. He'll gladly settle with the instances where his full concentration is required to decipher what Tipsy Zayn is saying thanks to the man's Pakistani accent overriding his British. Even then, there have been a few mornings where Liam's been so out of it himself, that the only thing he could translate was the slowly slurred _Leeyum_.

At the thought of the involuntary nickname, he presses a kiss to the side of the man's temple, breaking him out of his trance.

"Sorry," Liam whispers. "You can go back to sleep, it's just me."

"Idhar aao." Patiently, Liam waits for the translation. "Come closer," Zayn mumbles, immediately drifting back to sleep after throwing an arm over Liam's broad chest carelessly.

Despite not being the deepest of sleepers, tossing and turning constantly throughout the night, Liam always finds it remarkable how quickly Zayn can conk back out after being awoken. He thanks his lucky stars for it too, because without that tendency, sneaking out of bed and replacing his body with a pillow until he got back from fighting supervillain led crime wouldn't be possible. It doesn't happen often, only when Liam deems it absolutely necessary and they're at his flat where he has a key and his bike, but it has happened over the past few weeks and as far as he's concerned, Zayn hasn't suspected a thing.

Before Liam dozes off from the serenity of the moment, he catches himself and turns his head towards his edge of the bed. Without much effort, the phone that was charging on the carpet begins to hover in the air just high enough that Liam can grab it to check the time. If he doesn't leave soon, he'll be late.

"Where are you going?"

Zayn's pillow swallows his murmur for the most part, but Liam doesn't need any clarification. It's the same thing every morning they wake up together. Liam makes a move to slip out from under the sheets, either for work or to relieve himself, and Sleepy Zayn acts like it's the end of the world.

"It's Saturday," he reminds the older man softly, smiling at the way Zayn's struggling to keep his eyes open. "You know I work on Saturdays."

"I hate work," he grumbles, shoving his face further into the green pillowcase.

If it weren't for how much the people at the centre needed him infinitely more than this innocent version of his boyfriend, Liam would feel guilty for their schedules misaligning six out of the seven days of the week.

"I know," Liam sighs, holding on to his smile. "You stay here. I can see myself out."

"I'll come with you." The arm around Liam's torso tightens as Zayn stretches, his muscles tensing in contraction and then relaxing with a satisfied exhale of breath. "Get my newspaper, so I can be with you longer."

Liam doesn't budge, "I'll probably see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, please," Zayn agrees, going against his initial words and curling up close to the body next to him. "I want that."

"Ok." A light kiss gets pressed to Zayn's messy hair. "I'll text you later."

Carefully, Liam untangles himself from the other without causing too much discomfort, replacing the covers to go over Zayn's body before he leaves him altogether. He's about to swing his right leg over the edge and slip into the restroom to change when he hears it.

"I love you."

At the same time as the sole of his foot hits the carpeting, Liam's heart starts to pound. Unlike the rest of Zayn's rough enounciations, there was no mistaking what he'd said. But Liam still looks over his shoulder and asks, "Say that again?"

"I love you," Zayn repeats, cracking open one eye to stare up at Liam, an arrogant smirk there to match his tone. "You heard me the first time."

Silence stretches out between the two. But it's Zayn's smug smile, and how he actually focuses on Liam's eyes that prove his confession isn't simply a result of his morning haze of happiness, he knows full well the magnitude of what he's just said.

Twisting around, Liam tames his huge smile in order to give Zayn a proper kiss. A slow one, that lets his thoughts speak for themselves.

"I love you too," he promises, giggling into Zayn's mouth when the man takes advantage of their lips being so dangerously close after Liam pulled away the first time.

When they're back to staring at each other, Liam with that dopey smile that he knows he can sometimes have and Zayn with as peaceful a demeanor as is possible for him, the former doesn't feel like a weight's been lifted off his chest, more like a veil of devotion's been added.

"Next weekend, I was planning on going up to Wolverhampton for my sister's birthday," he says before he can stop himself. "Do you want to come?"

"If you want me to," Zayn replies smoothly.

"I do." It takes everything in Liam not to defend himself for such a quick response and denounce the older male's eyebrow raise because of it. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow," he decides, scratching under Zayn's beard lightly before finally getting up. "Have a good day."

"I'll try," Zayn moans when he's left with an empty bed, "but I'll miss you too much, Leeyum."

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Packing's never been Zayn's favourite activity, not even for a quick weekend trip. It brings back too many destructive memories. Perhaps if he stopped using the raggedy suitcase that's featured in most of them, he'd be a lot better off. Then again, tossing the old thing might just dig him deeper into his familiar hole of torture rather than subdue the misery.

Out of the shower, he checks the bag to make sure that he's got what he needs for a weekend at The Payne's, moving on to his shirtless body afterwards. A quick scan of his skin shows that all of his tattoos are accounted for, the robot he let loose to tidy up the flat when he got home from work an hour ago is sitting upright, content with a long, single-lined smile on his inner right forearm and wearing Zayn's bulky earphones. His bandana, the same one that Liam had returned the day following his slicing mishap without anything other than a meaningful "thank you" (the lack of commentary on the cut's quick heal was both relieving and slightly concerning), is wrapped around his right elbow, on display in all its glory until it's to be of use once again.

As he zips up the bag, a red strand of ribbon nearly gets stuck in the tracks. He tucks it back down inside, making sure that the box wrapped in brown butcher paper that it's attached to is still in good condition, same with the second gift that looks identical.

_"Why are we taking chicken karahi with us if the reason we're going to Faizan's house is to have dinner?" Zayn finally asked one day, tired of being confused on the matter after wondering why visits to family friends always involved counterintuitive practices._

_"Because, you should never go to another person's home without a gift," his mother had told him. "No matter how big or small."_

The two candles - one for Liam's parents, and the other for his sister as a birthday gift - are still in pristine condition from when he picked them out mid-week in a need to get out of the office for fresh air and new faces. At least, that was the mindset Zayn had leaving his desk. Ten minutes into browsing the aisles and sniffing coffee to offset the various scents, he needed to check himself before setting the clerks hair on fire when she continued to insist he smell the lit candles she brought over to him.

"Where are you going?" Harry asks over the back of the sofa when Zayn emerges from his room, bag in hand.

"Out," he answers, slipping on his shoes by the door. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere, I'm staying here."

"Glad we got that cleared up."

The door slams shut.

It feels odd for Zayn to lie to his brother about something as trivial as going to Wolverhampton for the weekend, but it's necessary if he wants to avoid seeing how wide Harry and Louis' eyes can get or how high their brows can rise hearing that Zayn agreed to meet one of his significant other's family.

He may have been in a handful of relationships since fifteen, but none of them included families. As a teenager, he'd cross paths with parents at events or via waving at them as they stood in the front window watching their daughter walk up the driveway after a date. When he got older, he almost always managed to dodge the conversation by pulling the work card. Eventually, that excuse lost its power with his longest relationship of a year and a half. Zayn had no choice but to be brutally honest and say that he just didn't find it emotionally healthy for him to come over for Christmas. It had been a play with just enough truthfulness for the man to respect and not push. Zayn actually remembers him being quite pleased with the confession and the fact that he had been given a look into his enigmatic boyfriend's feelings after all that time.

For a twenty-seven year old with as descent of a track record with lovers as he has, Zayn really shouldn't be experiencing this much dread over an introduction. Except it wasn't just a meal, it was a full on weekend retreat (Zayn's still astonished that Liam allowed himself to leave early on a Friday and take off Saturday). And under _their_ roof. He'd have nowhere to escape. Fucking morning spell that he always fell victim to. If he'd been fully awake, or at the very least, not as high off hearing his three word profession be reciprocated as he had been, he wouldn't have ever agreed to this. And if he had one working brain cell, he would've swallowed his pride and asked Harry how to keep himself in one piece, because his gut instincts and the first page of Google search results for "how to act when you meet your boyfriend's parents" probably isn't going to cut it. Especially not if he can't even make it off the train to the midlands without his nerves getting called out.

"What's wrong?"

Zayn looks up from his book to see Liam staring at him curiously, one of the carriage's thin work tables in between them. "Hmm?"

"You haven't turned that page in ten minutes," Liam points to the novel. "It'd only take an hour for you to finish the whole thing."

Upon glancing down, page number 167 taunts Zayn.

"Just thinking," he deflects, sitting up straighter in his seat.

"About..."

Outside, the darkened silhouette of a passing farming, blurred by the train's high speed steals Zayn's attention; the nighttime landscape's far easier to look at than Liam's bright eyes brimming with intrigue.

"I've never done this," he replies quietly.

"Done what?"

Annoyance starts to trickle in. "This," Zayn points a finger between the two of them.

"Been in a relationship?"

It's irrational for him to blame Liam for how vague he's being, but Zayn's irritation finally spills over.

"Damn it Liam," he chides, tearing his eyes away from the train's exterior to give Liam the attention he requires. "Been introduced to someone's parents."

"Oh."

The younger man sits in stupor, clearly not expecting for that to be the response he would be given. The more time that passes, the more Zayn starts to feel like his insecurities are caving in on him.

"They're going to love you," Liam says at last. "You don't have anything to be worried about."

Easy for him to say. Harry isn't exactly intimidating.

"I don't do families besides my own," Zayn replies with a low undertone, his line of sight back down on the pages beneath his fingers.

Liam's brow creases, "Then why did you agree?"

"Because I love you."

_And I need you to feel the same. If I wasn't willing to put myself through whatever hell this is about to bring, then my love wouldn't be real._

It's hard to tell if his reason's the right one with the crinkly-eyed smile Liam's sending him. It could merely be there as a reaction to hearing those three words that are still incredibly fresh for them, or because Zayn's forgoing the cryptic route for once. Either way, it gets Liam off his back until they're standing in front of a door with way too many dents in it to be considered safe.

"You'll be fine," Liam reassures him quietly, treating the dingy second floor hallway as if it's just theirs and not free for other residents in the building to roam; the screams of a baby from one of the flats at the end of the corridor does a good job at ruining the romance. "I'm gonna be right here."

Zayn forces a smile in acknowledgment, holding his breath as the door's given three consecutive raps. A woman's voice comes from the other side.

"Liam, if that's you, how many times do I have to tell you that you don't have to knock?

The door's hardly opened halfway before Liam's being pulled into a hug by the sixty-something year old lady.

"And how many times do I have to tell _you_ to always lock the doors?" Liam objects into the woman's embrace.

"I do," she huffs wryly, "just not when I know you're coming. Let me see you." Her hands go from around Liam's figure to cupping his cheeks. "You keep getting more and more handsome, don't you?"

Zayn smiles, _he does._

"I look the same as I did on Mother's Day," Liam replies modestly, accepting the kiss that's being given before returning to the man next to him. "Mum, this is Zayn."

For as happy as the woman looked to see her son, she seems even more thrilled to meet his boyfriend. Her smile only grows the longer she has to take in Zayn, the man feeling his own widening at the near instant acceptance.

She's got sandy blonde hair that falls right below her shoulders. It's straight, with a clean fringe across her forehead. Around her warm brown eyes are dark circles, though not gastly in their appearance, merely a proud sign of what she's gone through to get where she is today.

"Hi," Zayn says in as much of an upbeat tone as he can muster, hand outstretched. "Nice to meet you."

"Oh no, you're much too polite." In the blink of an eye, Zayn's the one being yanked into a tight hold. "We're huggers."

_Of course you are._

"Karen," a deep voice calls from inside, "don't keep the boys standing at the door."

On cue, Zayn pulls away, following Liam and his mother into the flat, pausing briefly to take his shoes off before they enter further.

The living area's tiny, hardly able to hold the brown corduroy sofa and TV stand while still having room to walk around. Photos dot the unevenly painted beige walls, some framed, others not. In the corner, a portly man with a short beard overtaken with grey (similar to what's left of his hair) struggles to get up from the heavily-used recliner he's situated in.

"It's alright Dad," Liam tells him, dropping his duffle on the couch to hurry over and help, "you can stay there."

With one hand gripping the chair's thick arm, the man uses his other to wave Liam away. "I can do it," he replies, voice strained from using his might to haul himself up with one huge burst of energy. "I've got a shotty leg, I'm not immobile." Utilizing Liam's shoulders as a point of balance, he gathers himself for a moment, then brings his son in for a hug as soon as he has enough confidence in his stance to do so.

When Liam finally steps back, he keeps a hand on the man's upper arm and watches him carefully as he eases himself back down into the chair.

Instead of hovering in the room awkwardly, Zayn takes the initiative and moves forward. "Hi, 'm Zayn."

"Geoff." Surprisingly, the man's handshake doesn't rip Zayn's arm out of its socket; there's a friendly element to it, like in his small grin. "You've quite the tattoos," he observes, Zayn's hand breaking away to instinctively grip the area of his neck that's being stared at. "They look a lot nicer in person."

" _Dad_ ," Liam scolds in a very childlike manner.

"Sorry," Geoff chuckles, obviously chuffed at making his son uncomfortable. "It was hard to make any of them out in the pictures Liam's sent over of you."

This time, Liam's " _Dad_ " comes out just short of mortified.

"They didn't do you justice at all," Karen adds from behind.

Zayn waits for a whiny _Mum_ to follow, but it doesn't. In its place, Liam asks if he wants a cup of tea and slips Zayn's bag out from under his left hand.

"Please, yeah."

He'd bought him and Liam one for the train ride, but he could always go for something warm and calming. Even more so when Liam leaves him alone in the sitting room with his father, the small back and forth between him and his mother audible for a few moments before it becomes distant noise.

"The train was ok? And the bus ride from the station?"

"No bus, Zayn insisted he pay for a cab."

"It's about time you're the one who's getting spoilt..."

As he takes a seat near the end of the sofa, sinking into the worn out cushions, an unexpected sensation of pride comes over Zayn at how he's turned the tables on his partner, entirely unbeknownst to him. Sadly, the moment's short lived.

"So..." Zayn's head snaps up to address the other occupant in the room. "Liam says you write books."

"Uh, no," he replies, clearing his throat of any lodged anxiety. "I just edit them."

No follow up questions are asked, and Zayn can't help but wonder if his awkward disposition is the reason why. He doesn't much help himself, sitting in silence as the low volume from the TV program and chatter in the kitchen between Mother and son fill the air. Eagerly, his mind works on thinking up something to say, surveying the minimal decorations and hordes of family photos as he waits for a worthwhile topic to take shape.

There's a photo close by of Liam and his sisters, all three in their teens, wearing school uniforms, mid-laugh. It's endearing, and the side of this whole experience that Zayn had been looking forward to - learning more about Liam's family in order to learn more about Liam - but his emotions betray him. They compare it to his own upbringing, how the religion he was raised to believe in didn't allow for photos to be put on display, and how even if it did, his own parents wouldn't have any of him to show off past age nine.

To escape the spiral he can feel himself getting sucked into, he turns to the TV where a car repair show's playing. A plumbing van is getting its inside paneling replaced. Zayn's stomach churns.

He doesn't want to be here. This was a horrible idea. He should've known coming would've been an abhorrent reminder of what he lost thanks to corruption and radicals, greed and power thirsty individuals.

Why can't Zayn bring home his significant other to meet _his_ birth parents? Why was _he_ the one the world decided to shed its unfairness on? Sure, his parents probably would've killed him on the spot if he were to show up to their front door with a man on his arm, but that's avoidable. He'd ignore any male who gave him the time of day if it meant he would have a home to visit for overrated holidays. Parents to return to at all. He wants to see what his sister would've grown up to look like at age sixteen; stunning, no doubt. He wants sweet grapes.

"He hasn't brought anyone home in years."

Again, Zayn looks up from his lap where he's been doing his silent brooding, blinking away the water that he can feel brimming his eyes, not from sadness, but from anger.

"You must be special," Geoff adds boldly.

Going off a dictionary definition, he is. By some miracle, he made it to this country, unscathed unless you count his disturbed psychology. What the majority of the tattoos on his body can do might even categorize him as extraordinary. Yet Zayn doesn't know what to say, because he doesn't see himself like this. He feels very un-whole.

"I..."

"He's _very_ special," Liam injerects, saving Zayn from having to come up with a relatively modest answer while still staying true to his own self-beliefs. With him, he's brought a plate of digestive biscuits that he hands over to Zayn, along with a napkin of the same, full of a two or three people serving for his father.

"You even got a 'very'," Geoff says as Liam leaves to go back into the kitchen, eyebrows raised bemusedly.

Like he would have acted when he was a kid, Zayn turns his eyes downward shyly, but only for a second because they're back to staring at the older man in unassuredness when he's being asked, "what are your intentions?"

Zayn swallows, "My intentions?"

"Yes," Geoff nods, attention away from the TV and his biscuits, solely focused on his company. "Where do you see your relationship with my son going?"

Mild panic runs through Zayn's veins. If only this man knew that his answer lay in Zayn's attendance altogether. But that's now, not the far future.

All Zayn can hear is the blood rushing through his ears. The mechanic's voice giving a rundown of which metal sheets are more durable for the van fades into the background. It's the most subordinate he's felt in a long time, which doesn't help much in the anger department. But he can't lash out. He can't do that to Liam.

"Um, I don't know," he says, keeping his tone firm and confident, despite his indecisive start. "I mean, I love him. He's wonderful. I don't know what I'd do without him, I just..."

Stumbling over his words isn't like Zayn, not in the slightest. It's downright embarrassing, and feeds the seedlings of weakness that have been sewn.

_How do people stand feeling this powerless?_

"Zayn."

The stern tone causes the named man to meet eyes with Geoff swiftly, the pit of dread in his stomach growing.

"I was only trying to loosen you up," Geoff reveals, a smile playing on his lips now that his prank's out there in the open. "I wasn't serious."

And if Zayn didn't feel like an idiot before, he sure does now. The only thing he can do is spare a glance at the room's archway and pray that Liam walks through to save him like he promised.

"But you are," the man muses, eyeing the other with great contemplative intrigue.

Zayn can make out the light in his chestnut coloured irises. They're inviting, much like Liam's always are; they even share the same crinkles that bunch up on their side temples. It's possible that in Geoff's case they've gathered from holding a good amount of weight in his face. But still, it's enough of a familiar sight to etch an adequate amount of trust in Zayn to speak the truth.

"I've never done this before," he confesses, looking the man in the eye. "I thought I was supposed to answer honestly."

Geoff's smile turns up a pinch higher, "I'm glad you did. But you've got nothing to be nervous about. I'm as harmless as they come. Even if I wasn't, you could outrun me down the hall." He points to his lower left shin, an action of which they both grin madly at. It's a godsend to see that he can laugh at himself. Zayn just hopes he can hold on to that feeling of abatement to get him through the rest of his stay.

"Do you, um, like cars?" He tries out, remembering that the second article he clicked on had mentioned talking about your partner's parents' likes just as much as they ask you questions. Liam's spoken here and there about his father's love of junk food and action films, but given there's not much to say on the former and with Zayn not really being a fan of the latter, what's playing on the TV seems like a more practical place to start.

"That's how I busted my leg," Geoff replies nostalgically. "Got drunk, wasn't paying attention, and a mate's car clipped me. Bones never healed the same." If it wouldn't raise any questions, Zayn would use his bandana to heal the damage overnight. "What about you?"

"You're on your own," Zayn says with a shake of his head. "My bones are all good."

The two share another easy smile.

"I think I'd take my shattered shin over putting needles to my head though," Geoff supposes, motioning to the side of Zayn's skull that he can't take his eyes off of. "How bad did that hurt?"

He's got so many tattoos that it takes Zayn running his hands over the buzzed hairs of his undercut to register the mandala that covers the entire left side of his head. "Actually, I've got a rose on the back." He twists his body for the other to be able to see the flower that sits at the base of his head, the fresh haircut that he got that afternoon making it clear to see. "It hurt much worse because of the shading."

"You must really like tattoos."

"Yeah, I do. I always have," Zayn replies, thinking back to the time he first saw one in a western film and how thrilling it was to him to know that you could choose to have something on your body forever. It's not just for two weeks, it won't fade in the shower. It's an accessory like a necklace or watch, just on you for life. "I think the wings on my chest or the snake on my shoulder were up there for most painful as well."

"A snake?" Zayn nods in response to the sudden question, turning around once more. He'd show the man, but the jumper he's wearing under his leather jacket is too thick to be bothered. "What does Liam think of it?"

"I'm not sure." The look of pure elation that's come over Geoff's features confuses Zayn to no end. "He hasn't ever specifically talked about it."

"He hates snakes," the older male says enthusiastically before he brings two biscuits to his mouth at once, chewing quickly to presume speaking. "One day, when he was little, I took him to the park. It was just the two of us, his sisters were old enough to be in school by then. He came across this mole tunnel in the grass, but he didn't know what it was. I let him watch it for a bit and then yelled 'snake!'." A sinister smirk splits Zayn's face while Geoff's belly laugh ricochets off the room's tight walls. "You should've seen his face. He was so petrified. Cried all the way home. I felt so guilty I gave in and bought him an ice cream before we got in. I reckon he's probably still traumatized."

There's no removing Zayn's smile. He wouldn't be surprised if it was stuck there permanently from a story like that. It's a shame that Liam's entering the room with two mugs in his hands, his mum trailing with another two, because Zayn would've pried for about ten more anecdotes of that caliber.

After handing his father and Zayn each their tea, Liam looks between them suspiciously. "Leaving the two of you in a room together was a bad idea."

"Don't know what you're on about," Geoff replies innocently. "We were just talking about cars, weren't we Zayn?"

Even with all eyes on him, the pressure of lying doesn't get to Zayn. It never does.

"Yeah," he agrees, bringing his drink up to his lips carefully, "cars."

It's as though "cars" is the magic word Zayn's nerves have been waiting to hear. They never disappear, but they're not nearly as blaring or debilitating as they had been leading up to that moment. Only at night, when Zayn has no control of his emotions or what his subconscious decides to haunt him with does he go back to feeling like he's suffocating in his own skin. But as he's quickly learning, keeping Liam close by - in this case, literally - can ease the pain of Zayn's scars in a way he didn't think possible.

Keeping with the size of the rest of the flat, Liam's room is small. There's hardly any furniture because, "technically, this is only a spare room." But Zayn doesn't care about that, he's not picky, nor judgmental when it comes to finances, it's the single sized bed that he's hesitant about. He's got a smaller than average build, but Liam, not so much. If he wasn't here he'd wonder how Liam would fend sleeping in it alone, nevermind with another body next him. It turns out the restrictive dimensions of the mattress work in his Zayn's favour. Every time he goes to toss and turn from whichever sick dream's tormented him awake, Liam's there to hold him tight against his chest and prevent Zayn from falling off the bed. Or from disturbing Liam's sleep any further, he won't ever know. At first, early on in the night when the movement showed itself to be an hourly occurence and Liam did more than flex his arm, he asked what was wrong, Zayn felt guilty. Even though Liam's follow up response to Zayn's exhausted "nightmares" was an equally tired "I won't let anything happen to you" followed by a firm squeeze, he still has to remind himself that he's not to blame for his irrepressible behaviour.

When they wake the next morning, it's like the violent unrest never happened. Liam doesn't say a word about it. He merely peppers Zayn's face with kisses and maintains his promise, staying by his side throughout breakfast when Zayn won over his mother by remembering to present her with his offering of appreciation. At lunch, when both sisters were impressed by Zayn bringing a birthday gift for the oldest that was separate from their brother's. And in the evening, when Zayn, in not so many words, receives approval from Liam's four year old nephew by sneakily upping the volume of his cartoons every time another adult turns it down.

On Sunday, after dropping by the restaurant Liam's mum works at for a free brunch, they walk around the crime-ridden neighborhood Liam spent his younger years living in. The sun's peeking through the grey clouds, but that doesn't make the area feel any less seedy. Having to avoid needles and stray knives in the vacant lots they crossed through didn't sit well with Zayn. The images he has of Liam as a toddler, playing or making the trip to school in these conditions - in daylight, nevermind after dusk - they shouldn't exist.

Zayn may have grown up in Pakistan during a particularly dangerous time in the country's history, but that had nothing to do with the district of Quetta he lived in. In terms of safety, it was average. The sheet of precariousness that was laid over the entire nation is what made his home unstable.

And yet, Liam holds his head high, doesn't show an ounce of self-pity. That's not what he's about. That's not what either of them is about. He's proud of his family for managing to get out of the council housing development that they were imprisoned in.

It's wider than it is tall; if Zayn had to guess, the brick building probably had around one hundred units in its entirety.

"We lived in one of the inner flats," Liam recalls distantly. "It was two bedrooms. My mum and dad had one and my sisters shared the other. I slept on the couch."

While his sisters have had the opportunity to move to a regular neighborhood nearer to Wolverhampton's city centre with their husbands, Liam's parents haven't been so lucky. They've only been able to move from the middle of the postcode to its perimeter. But it's a step up, just like Karen's promotion to front of house manager several years ago. Only a few more and she can finally grab hold of retirement and quit the race she's been running all of her life. Until then (and probably still after), Liam insists on helping her as much as possible. Including stopping by the shop to fill her fridge so full that it'll barely close.

"Don't forget," Liam says, pulling their trolly down the cereal aisle by the rear since Zayn's riding on the front, "we've gotta get up early tomorrow to take the train back."

A reminder isn't needed, Zayn's well aware that his Monday's going to need to start five hours earlier than normal due to his boyfriend's heart of gold forcing them to stay in town on a work night for Mother and Father to have as much time with their son as possible. Once Liam had let him in on the plan, he already decided then and there that he was calling in sick.

"If we take my ship, we can sleep in," Zayn mumbles, not realizing that he said that out loud until he hears Liam's "ship?"

"It translates to private jet," he lies effortlessly. "Bilingual slip up."

If it weren't for Zayn's occasional mistake inserting a few Urdu words with his English, Liam probably wouldn't have gone straight back to examining the wall of salad dressings he's stopped them at, completely and utterly unaware that the real word for airplane is hawaai jahaz.

"I've got a work thing on Wednesday," Zayn casually mentions, body curled over the trolly handle as he watches Liam shop.

"Oh yeah?" A creamy Thousand Island gets plucked off the shelf. "Who's on the chopping block this time?"

"Me," Zayn replies bitterly. "It's an awards dinner. At a banquet hall near Tower Hill. I'm hoping that if I go, it'll look good and solidify the promotion that I'm gravely overdue for."

Liam glances up from examining the dressing's nutritional facts. "You're not one of the ones getting an award, are you?"

"No." Immediately, Zayn can see the relief enter Liam's system as he realizes his suspicions were incorrect, there's no important moment in his boyfriend's life that he's last to hear about. "It's for industry executives who need a bigger ego boost than their paychecks already provide."

"Don't you want to be in their shoes one day?" Liam asks, trading the bottle in his hand for another.

"Yes, but not for the money, for my father."

Time practically stops as each man stares at one another. Zayn, stunned silent at how easily he just revealed a secret so personal. And Liam, equally as shocked hearing it. Neither dare to blink.

There are several ways out of this. Zayn could utilize his quick wit to devise another lie, that's always an option. He could abandon the scene and walk away. Simple, yet effective. Or his personal favourite: create a distraction by harping on something he finds enraging.

"My father," Zayn repeats nervously. "I owe him that."

The longer the truth's out in the open, the greater Zayn's urge to bolt down the next aisle becomes. He doesn't want to say anything else, just leave it at that, but he can see Liam about to open his mouth, so he has no choice but to keep talking so his boyfriend can't.

"I won't survive alone though," he admits, trying to switch on his charm and change the conversation's energy. "I need a handsome date to distract me from all the severely overdressed pricks."

Rather than avert his eyes from Liam's to spare himself the reaction, Zayn holds on to his last sliver of bravery and watches the other twist the bottle of vinaigrette in his hand. Any second now, he's expecting to hear the comment he so graciously rushed to bury, but it doesn't come. Instead, a cocky smile, one that might usually be seen on Zayn, turns his way.

"Do you have anyone in mind?" Liam asks teasingly.

"There is one person," Zayn answers, thankful that the younger man's going along with his game and leaving the past in the past. "He's quite fit. Has Wednesdays off too if my memory serves me correctly."

"You should ask him before he finds something better to do." Tossing the dressing in with the rest of the groceries, Liam ignores the unimpressed face Zayn pulls and keeps on. "If it's the same lad I'm thinking of, he likes a formal invitation."

Zayn hops off the trolley in frustration. "Fuck me, Liam," he complains tartly.

"I will, if you take my advice."

And suddenly, the fun's back.

Stepping around the cart, Zayn takes both of Liam's hands into his and breathes in deeply for dramatic effect. "Be my date to the obnoxiously fancy soiree this Wednesday? Please jaan?" Liam snatching his hands out of Zayn's grasp leaves the male gawking. "What? That wasn't enough?"

Sighing, he starts to get down on one knee, but Liam yanks him up by a fistful of shirt when there's a gasp coming from the end of the aisle. When Zayn looks over, he sees a woman and her daughter frozen in shock at what they were almost just witnesses to.

"Nothing to see here," he declares annoyingly loud. "Move along." The two shuffle away.

"I wasn't asking for a bloody proposal," Liam hisses embarrassingly.

Sorting out the fresh wrinkles in his long sleeve tee, Zayn smirks, "The hot sauce aisle isn't romantic enough for you?"

"You called me John," Liam protests childishly. "You think I'm gonna say yes to that?" His displeasure ramps up when Zayn starts to laugh under his breath. "What's so funny about calling me the wrong name?"

"The fact that I didn't." Liam still doesn't look convinced. "I said jaan, not John," Zayn clarifies with as much distinctive pronunciation as he can, figuring that of all the words, this one deserves a real explanation, the truth. "J-a-a-n. It means life, but in a poetic way. It's used to show how much someone means to you. It's like saying that your love runs deeper for them than it would for any other person. That you'd rather not be without them. And that you don't even really have that choice anyway because they're the key to your vitality."

Zayn takes Liam's inability to respond, only stand there in awe like an enamoured deer in headlights, as a sign that he's done a good enough job convincing him that he's not being played with.

"Now," Zayn exaggerates, "will you please go to this fucking dinner with me?"

Amid Liam's stupidly large smile, he shrugs. "You didn't even have to ask."

* * *

**L**

* * *

The first time Liam ever wore a suit was at his aunt's funeral. He was fourteen. And really, the only reason that was even possible was because he'd reached an age where he could fit into the blazer that his older cousin finally grew out of. Up until then, ceremonies and school functions were had in black jeans and a white button up.

The first time he bought his own suit was for his university graduation. He was twenty-one. It wasn't anything fancy, and honestly, his gown was so free flowing that it was hard to tell that there was a fresh Zara ensemble underneath at all. Only when he stood up and frantically buttoned the jacket closed before walking across the stage could you make out the outfit as it was intended. But Liam knew. And his parents knew. And in the end, that's all that really mattered.

The first time he bought a suit and had it tailored was when Niall invited him to a celebrity golf tournament after party. He was twenty-four. His best mate even came along for the fitting and helped convince Liam that he should see the three hundred pounds as an investment. Gone was all his savings, but Niall had been right. In the two years since, Liam's worn the slim fit, black suit more times than he can count. For work, for weddings, sadly for several more funerals. But tonight marks the first time he'll be wearing it on a date.

"Well if it isn't my favourite contribution to your wardrobe," Niall announces from the couch when Liam surfaces from his room fully dressed.

If by "contribution" Niall means practically swiped his card for him, then Liam supposes he can consider him having a hand in the sale.

Turning around, he says, "I ran a lint roller over the back, but I'm good, yeah?"

"Spotless." Liam faces forward once more. "Bow-tie's straight. Shoes are shined. You look great," Niall approves, although his small grin wavers when Liam starts to fiddle with the silver cufflinks at his wrists. "You're not nervous are you?"

"A little bit," the man admits, hating how feeble he sounds out loud. "Important people with money aren't my crowd."

"If it helps, you look like you fit right in."

The flattery doesn't necessarily translate, it only stirs up mixed emotions for Liam. Where he is now, he's making a stable wage. He doesn't need to behave like he's still poor. And yet, it feels blasphemous for him to be comfortable with knowing that his acceptance from others would most likely be based on the most expensive thing he owns besides his bike.

"Tell Zayn I said hi," Niall adds. "And that he should come over on Saturday while you're at work to watch England take on India. I think their first match is tomorrow."

It was today. And it's also the only thing Zayn's been talking about for the past week. The cricket season may have started well over two months ago in the UK, but ever since Pakistan's greatest rival ("in everything Liam, not just sports") came to town, Zayn's been exercising his British pride to the extreme. He even got Liam's dad to stop from changing the channel when the Sky announcers they'd been watching began giving predictions for the upcoming five game run the two countries were about to embark on. Given how nervous Zayn had been at the beginning of the weekend, Liam had been fairly impressed that he had the courage to interfere with anything that had to do with his old man's sitting room territory, especially the TV.

On the ride to the banquet hall, smashed in between a teen wearing a coffee shop uniform and her friend, who won't stop smacking her gum, sanity can be found in replaying the trip home. Namely, how wonderful it is to love someone who didn't need to be taught to love his family (his best friend now too) and visa versa. Monday morning, after getting into the centre, he'd got confirmation that he didn't only see what he wanted to see. With Zayn out of earshot, his mother had finally been able to gush about how much she loved Liam's new boyfriend once she knew the two of them had arrived in London safely. But even if that conversation wasn't had, signs of approval were clear as day - his mum, subtly mentioning how she couldn't wait until her youngest finally got married so she could have more grandkids as they all sat around in the front room eating dinner Sunday night, and his dad, unleashing a lot more jokes than he normally would around a newcomer. Even Liam's sisters had given him the green light, sending messages to their sibling group chat about how good looking Zayn is in comparison to the last guy Liam dated that made him mute the notifications until he was in a safe enough place to read them over and not be ridiculed for how red-faced the insinuations made him.

But nothing, no angel among them, could compare to the person Liam sees when he turns the corner on his walk from the station.

Zayn's leaning against the banquet hall's brick exterior, suave, as though he's posing for a photoshoot, when in reality, he's just toying with his phone, waiting on his boyfriend. He's got on a pair of black leather chelsea boots and a grey, wool suit; there's a matching tie covering up the buttons of his white shirt.

Liam's never truly had a movie moment where he's lost his breath from someone's looks, so he's not sure if the sudden rush of adrenaline he's experiencing is his form of that or the complete opposite. But either or, the man before him's like nothing he's ever witnessed outside of a magazine.

Sensing Liam's presence, Zayn lifts his eyes, the frustration in them vanishing the moment he pushes off the wall. They stay glued on Liam's approaching figure, his phone getting shoved into his pocket hastily when he realizes that he's still holding it.

"Oh my god," he says breathlessly once they're only a meter apart.

Straight away, the rosiness in Liam's cheeks from the cold weather deepens. He can tell from Zayn's once over that it's a good sort of explicative, not a disparaging one he should be worried about.

"Hi," he smiles brightly. "Have you been waiting long?" A check of his watch and Zayn's firm "no" alleviate his concern.

"But even if I was, I would've waited here all night if I knew you were going to look like _this_ ," Zayn bexpresses, an open palm signaling the other's attire.

"You told me it was formal," Liam defends enthusiastically, his facial features matching his expressive tone. "What'd you think I was gonna wear? A tank top?"

"A tank top..." Shaking his head pathetically, Zayn reaches for Liam's side, pulling him close. "Come here."

Their kiss is long, heated even towards the end. People brush up against them trying to advance down the sidewalk, but Zayn won't let Liam move them out of the way; his unyielding grip on Liam's waist pressing so hard that even through his clothing, the younger man can feel the pressure from Zayn's individual fingers.

"You look gorgeous," Zayn says quietly when he finally allows them to part.

"So do you." A hand that Liam's slipped in between them tugs gently on the thin grey tie in front of him. "I've never seen you in a full suit. Only a dress shirt."

"Then I guess it's both of our lucky nights," Zayn smirks, threading his left hand with Liam's right, and leading the way into the building behind them.

Inside, the reception area looks more like a West End theatre lobby than the entrance to a banquet hall. There aren't any winding staircases that lead up to balcony seating, but there are intricate details in the eggshell crown moldings along the walls and recessed lighting within the mint coffered ceiling that give off the same aristocratic air of an age old playhouse. However, even with such an introduction, Liam's still taken aback by the main room.

Two, maybe three hundred people fill the space to the brim, all dressed to the nines. White, circular tables with place settings for ten each cover the floor. Along the walls are ostentatious pieces of art to pair with the Victorian architecture: long windows close to the high ceiling, more crown moldings lining the walls, chandelier fixtures overhead. Expansive tables along the far wall are full of finger foods and drinks galore among a backdrop of seasonal floral arrangements. At the front of the room there's a slightly elevated stage with a wooden podium that's intimidating in its size. Every last centimeter of the hall has been taken advantage of, ensuring that the event doesn't come across as a drab networking function. To Liam, it feels like he's at a nineteenth century prom without the dance floor.

"I didn't realize it would be this elite," he tells Zayn as they stand off to the side of the entranceway.

"Believe you me," Zayn grumbles, pulling out his phone again, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

He begins typing away at an aggressive speed, and although it peaks Liam's interest, he's not the type to snoop, so instead, he takes the time to look through the program they were handed at the check-in desk.

**The Publishers Association**

**Presents**

**The London Literary Achievement Awards**

**June 17th, 2020**

Each page lists the different award categories for the 2019 calendar year: Highest Overall Sales - Any Genre, and one for seven more specific ones, Best New Agent, House with Most Awards Distributed to their Authors/Works, and Greatest Adaptation Optioned. There's also mention of a speech that'll be given on the past year's trends, as well as those seen as up and coming, and a societal inauguration for a new publishing house.

To his side, Zayn's still furiously typing. The nearly non-existent part of Liam that's selfish wonders if that could work in his favour. His chances of getting a real answer to if Zayn's rise up the corporate ladder is in the name of his real or foster father seem a lot higher with Zayn's attention diverted elsewhere. But before he gets the chance to clear his throat and muster up an innocent enough tone of voice, Zayn's already making a deep sound of disapproval bringing his phone up to his ear.

"This'll only take a second."

Liam nods, shifting his focus to a woman's dress who's just walked past them. It's matronly with its lace and bunched up, frilly collar. She belongs in one of the paintings hanging on the faded yellow walls, not out in the real world.

"What don't you understand about 'I'm busy tonight?'"

Zayn's vicious tone cuts through Liam's thoughts, causing the younger man's gaze to return to his boyfriend; he looks furious.

"I don't care, I'm at work," Zayn retorts bitterly. "I don't have to explain myself to any of you. I told you, I'm not a part of any alliance." His eyes narrow, the fire behind them growing as he takes in whatever's being said on the other end of the line. "I haven't been escaping my obligations. I don't have any!" The sudden intensity earns him a mellow rub of the back. "Get someone else to take you," Zayn orders scornfully, back at a normal volume. "Then don't go, ask me if I care. Keep pulling this all night and I'll have Louis get a hold of you."

"Is everything ok?" Liam asks timidly as Zayn opens his jacket and tucks his phone away in the breast pocket, out of reach.

"Yeah, sorry," Zayn sighs, shaking his head like he's trying to get his train of thought back on track. "Just bullshit with some friends."

The tiniest of red flags goes up. In the four months he's known Zayn, not once has Liam ever heard him speak of friends other than Louis and Harry. How had he succeeded in keeping them out of conversation for this long? Was Liam the idiot for assuming Zayn's social circle consisted of his brother and his brother's boyfriend only?

He's about to say something when his hand's being grabbed.

"Let's go find out table and get this over with," Zayn says, keeping him close as they weave their bodies in and out of the elegant tables.

The moment's lost.

They're both on the lookout for table number twelve, but they don't get far in their search when Zayn's name is called out to their left.

A little woman in a navy blue pencil dress, very plain just like her looks - straight brown hair, natural makeup, glasses - is making her way towards them.

"My boss," Zayn whispers into Liam's ear, "Sarah. Editor-in-Chief."

Given how much Zayn shit talks his office, the smile Sarah's sporting is a lot bigger and more genuine than Liam would've guessed.

"Fifty-two, divorced, loves adventure books."

Just in case he needs to recall the information, Liam repeats the facts in his head until he's sure they've stuck, all the while fixing his posture to come across as presentable as possible. He tries not to stare at the diamond necklace laying against her collarbone, but it shimmers under the light so hypnotically that it's impossible to look away. As he guesses whether or not the jewels cost more than his yearly salary, Niall's voice plays in his head.

_You look like you fit right in._

"I'm so glad you accepted my offer to come tonight," Sarah says after engulfing Zayn in a hug and placing a kiss to each of his cheeks.

"Of course, thank you for inviting me." Taking a step back, Zayn motions to the man at his side, beaming with pride. "This is my boyfriend, Liam."

Absolutely no sign of judgement crosses the woman's face. She simply turns her smile towards Liam and leans in to give him the same polite reception as she had her employee, "Sarah."

"Pleasure to meet you," Liam gets out after reciprocating the posh cheek kisses.

"You've got one clever boyfriend."

Now it's Liam's turn to radiate delight at being able to call the person this woman thinks so highly of, his. He knocks one of his knuckles against Zayn's subtly, in the hopes his love will transfer through the light touch.

"He's probably the only editor in this room that's not the head of a division," Sarah continues with purpose. "That's why I invited him. Because he could be, but he needs to learn how to play nice." Her expression turns from good natured to sarcastically chummy. "Not every person in the industry is like me. In fact, most of them aren't. I'm not ignorant, I know what other people say about you." Zayn bites his bottom lip with arrogance. "You've got talent in a career path that doesn't necessarily require it, and I can see that. It's why I toss all the HR complaints to the side." All three produce wicked smiles instead of the condemning scowls Zayn and his actions truly deserve. "You produce great work Zayn, don't let that go to waste. Talk to people here. Whether you like it or not," Sarah says knowingly, her eyebrows raised, "the corporate world is about politics. Even if you have to fake it, play the game."

"I will," Zayn exhales heavily, like he already knows what she's said is true, but he still hates hearing it. "And thank you. For letting my work speak for me instead of my mouth."

Shaking her head fondly, Sarah adjusts the black clutch in her hand. "You really do need to quit sending third party emails to Holly impersonating old video rental shops and asking for her late fees. She knows it's you."

"It's not me," Zayn replies, incriminating himself with the shit eating grin on his face.

The woman eyes him with a knowing look before dismissing the available argument. "Our table's in the third row, far right. It was nice to meet you Liam," she says sincerely with a kind expression. Then, pointing at Zayn she adds, "Keep that smile on his face."

"You've got my word," Liam responds, watching as the woman walks out of earshot before he turns to Zayn and licks his lips in humoured expectation. "VHS shops?"

Zayn stays unmoving, dripping with conceit. "It's not me," he shrugs.

Liam hears him loud and clear. It's Louis.

The mischievous glint in Zayn's eyes leaves when over Liam's shoulder he spots someone he knows, guiding the younger man in their direction.

"Michael," he says as they close in on their target. "Managing Editor of the Non-Fiction division. Has a mild case of OCD. Anytime I see him coming down the hall, I undo one of my shirt buttons."

He's lean, has a perfectly shaved head, and a jawline free of any hair, which Liam isn't sure is because he was meticulous in cleaning up before he came or from simply not being able to grow a beard; it's gotta be the former. He looks to be in his mid-forties, and at twenty-six, even if Liam shaved in the morning, by the time it got to be around seven like it is now, he'd show some signs of scruff.

To his surprise, Zayn involves himself in the conversation between Michael and his friend from the association quite heavily. There's no jabs being taken, no sly insults being made. Only the cordial small talk that's usually Liam's strong suit.

After ten minutes, Zayn excuses them, grabs two glasses of Rosé from a passing waiter, and vents to Liam all of his pent up frustration that came from needing to act like a decent human being beyond a hello and goodbye.

"Evelyn," he mutters when he pinpoints another familiar face. "Head of the Romance division. Only hangs up art she's made in her office and won't let anyone who steps foot inside, leave without knowing about it."

Sure enough, the first thing she does after introducing herself and her husband is to ask what they think about the framed pieces in the room. It's a painfully dry conversation, even for Liam, but it's worlds better than having nothing at all to talk about. Which is exactly what happens when Zayn trades Evelyn for Lisa, the woman in charge of general fiction.

"I once caught her drinking– I swear to god Liam," he relays secretly as they walk over, " _drinking_ cottage cheese in the break room."

With a smile way too big to ever be considered genuine, Zayn dives right in. "Hi Lisa, this is my boyfriend Liam. What have you got there?" He asks, chin jutting out in the direction of her flute glass.

So maybe Zayn screwed himself with that one, but he gets the opportunity to reset when they're all sat down as a full company for dinner. And he takes it, introducing Liam to those they hadn't previously come across, and inserting himself into the work chit chat as best he can. Because of the significant gap in responsibilities, Liam can tell it's a struggle for him at times, trying to come up with something worthwhile to say about a topic like creative team distribution schedules that has practically zero wiggle room for an associate editor to weigh in on. But he tries, and if anything, treading to keep his head above water in a pool he's not supposed to be swimming in should be enough for any Father to be proud of. It is for Liam.

Under the table, there's a small nudge to his foot.

"Austin," Zayn singles out, "have you read anything interesting lately?"

Quickly, Liam bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a smirk. Because Austin, overseer of all mystery books, is a person born into the industry according to Zayn (Not that Liam couldn't guess that on his own. The Rolex on his wrist and the pearl earrings his wife's wearing don't exactly scream _new_ money). And people born into the industry, they're never _true_ readers.

"I've been so busy with our works that I haven't had time to do any leisure reading," Austin replies uneasily. "What about you?"

It's clear that Austin doesn't have a whole lot of common sense either, putting the ball in Zayn's court like that without hesitation.

"Quite a few actually," Zayn answers pompously. "Liam too. He finished _The Alchemist_ recently."

Hearing his name be brought up around the topic of literature almost has Liam spitting out his water.

"Have you?" Sarah asks excitedly. "That's one of my favourites."

She's leaning forward to look around Zayn, but all Liam can see is the infatuation in his boyfriend's eyes and the lazy smile he holds when he says, "Mine too".

The euphoria that comes with being reminded of just how loved you are by someone else gives Liam the confidence he needs to be able to speak on a subject that the people around him are literal experts on. And with the insight Zayn had given him when he'd finished the book, he successfully maintains his composure until the first award announcement ends the discussion.

For close to an hour, the front stage is occupied. It's all a little boring to Liam - the overly done acceptance speeches, the photo ops, the host who loves to hear the sound of his own voice - but he still pays attention. Only once does he become truly distracted when an ambulance's siren sounds, his eyes practically following the emergency vehicle through the walls as the noise zooms by the building. Rather than clap for the recipient as they walk off stage, he checks the phone in his jacket pocket for any alerts. Nothing. Even if there had been an awaiting message from Niall or a notification from a news outlet, he's suit-less. That, and there's no way he'd ever get over the guilt that would come from leaving Zayn on such an important night.

He's just about finished with his dessert, a luscious lemon meringue pie that came out after the final speech, when he's being left alone.

"Zayn, I want to introduce you to someone," Sarah requests from across the table where she's switched seats with Michael.

He gets a swift kiss on the cheek and a short, "I'll be back".

With the night winding down and the excitement in the air lessening by the minute, Liam's unclear what there is to do, but he's sure he can come up with something to talk about with the few who are still at the table, including the man in charge of the company's sci-fi and fantasy books who's grown his hair down to his shoulders.

"Why don't you talk to Todd?" Zayn suggests. The same man Liam had just been thinking of asking a random question to, looks over to see why he's been addressed. "Can you believe Liam hasn't seen _any_ of the Ghostbusters films?"

No hypothetical that Liam could ever pull out of his bag of icebreakers would be able to compete with the obscure line Zayn's just used. Especially because it's not true, he has seen the films, just not the newest. But from the wink that Zayn sends him as he follows behind Sarah's figure, Liam knows better than to throw off any plan of Zayn's that's already been set in motion. One look at Todd, and Liam's scared to find out what this one is. The man's practically foaming at the mouth, ready to dig into Liam's alleged inexperience with all things Ghostbusters.

And dig into it he does. In fifteen minutes, Liam learns way more about the franchise than he thought possible. Character backstories, prop details, museums that have been erected. It was like stepping into the Twilight Zone. An obnoxious know-it-all's Twilight Zone.

"What have I ever done to you?" Liam seethes in a hushed tone when Zayn finally returns and steals him away to get another drink.

The older man snickers, "Enjoy yourself?"

"How many times has he seen them all?" Liam asks incredulously, ducking out of the way of a waiter who's clearing off a nearby table.

"Enough to write his own book about them. I'm surprised he hasn't actually." Zayn stops in front of a sea of red and white wine glasses laid out for the taking. "Every week for casual Friday he wears something Ghostbusters related. And with the hair it's like, mate, we get it, you enjoyed the 80's."

If he didn't already have his lips around the edge of the glass he'd been handed, tasting the acidic blend of fermented grapes and hints of berry, Liam would've laughed a lot harder than he did.

As he lets the alcohol coat his tongue and senses, he notices how attentive Zayn is to the ceiling and high windows. A quick glance up tells Liam that he's not missing out on anything, though there is room for concern at how fast Zayn's already finished the drink in his hand. The image reminds Liam of the circumstances in which they met, but the smile on Zayn's face comes across a lot more authentic than it does a side effect of being drunk.

"Is the wine really that good?"

Zayn looks from the nearest chandelier, to Liam, who's waiting for an answer, then down at his glass.

"You're smiling to the point that I feel like I should be worried," Liam quips.

Like a switch has been flipped, charm envelopes Zayn and the air around him. "I've got the most handsome date here, why wouldn't I be smiling?"

Liam squints, attempting to keep his penchant for lines like that hidden. "Because you've always got something up your sleeve."

"Well maybe this time I don't, and I was just trying to be sweet." Finishing off his glass in one long sip, Zayn places it back on the table behind him and rids his lips of any leftover droplets with a passover of his tongue. "I'm gonna go to the toilet and then we can leave."

Alone once more, Liam stares at his drink, still mostly full. He's not one to throw back drinks, not anything other than shots, but he's not sure he'll ever be able to drink something this expensive again, so he tilts the glass back until there's not a drop of red left. Thankfully, they're saying goodbye to those that Zayn knows soon after, because Liam would be in trouble if they stayed long enough for the alcohol to hit his blood stream.

"I would invite you over to mine," Zayn says when they've made it out to the sidewalk, "but I have some things I need to sort out."

Physically he looks fine, happy as ever in fact, but Liam still feels the need to ask, "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just, you know," the man shrugs, his eyes drifting to the street rather than staying with Liam, "things from earlier." It takes Liam staring at Zayn silently and full of incredulity for the man to refocus his attention. "Jaan," he smiles complacently, "I promise, I'm alright."

Irked by how Zayn's learned all of his buttons to push and when to push them, Liam shakes his head menacingly. Menacingly fond. "You're gonna use that against me from now on, I can feel it."

Instead of being fed more charisma, Liam's given a kiss. It's sweet, meant to keep him pacified, but it does no such thing. When they pull away, his inquisitive stare stays hyper focused on trying to figure out what's going on in the other's head. He even contemplates the idea of making Zayn outrightly promise that they don't carry any secrets between them. Then reality hits, and Liam realizes that he's got no place to say that, it'd be crossing an invisible line.

"I'll order you a car," Zayn offers, his phone already out of his jacket pocket. "London's not all that safe these days."

"That's way too expensive," Liam pushes back. "I'll take the Tube."

"Text me when you get there, yeah?"

When Zayn looks up from his mobile screen, it almost seems like speaking to Liam's become a hindrance all of a sudden. He's still interested in hearing Liam's response, but only so he can consider it an allowance to go back to his phone; it's as if he's becoming increasingly manic. Like he's in a rush to get home now that they're free from the confines of his work-related responsibilities. But Liam can't pinpoint why that would be for the life of him. And why he's being thrown to the side so easily. It's not like Zayn to abstain from insisting he do something for Liam, like pay for his ride home. Any minimal efforts he's made to erase Liam's recent suspicions have been negated by this one out of character reply.

But, it's closing in on eleven at night. And while the idea of getting into bed, snug with his boyfriend, sounds like a nice way to combat the cold, it doesn't look like that's going to happen, so he better get going to beat the weather alone.

"Yeah," Liam nods indifferently. "I'll let you know."

Tucking his phone in his trouser pocket, Zayn steps forward and takes Liam's hands in his, giving him the consideration Liam wanted from the start. "Thank you for coming," he says sincerely. "You really were the most beautiful one in there."

Though his guard's still up, an honest "I love you" falls from Liam's lips easier than it should.

The same can be heard in that Pakistani-British combination of an accent that he's come to adore, but before Zayn takes off to wherever he needs to go and drops their hands, Liam tugs him back into his chest.

"I'm proud of you," he utters straight into the male's ear, pushing himself up against Zayn's body more than he already is for added effect.

The moment his words set in, Liam can feel it. The thin arms wrapped around his torso squeeze tighter. The chin that's hooked over his left shoulder presses in deeper. And the rugged stubble that's two or three days old stabs Liam's neck as Zayn does his best to get as close to the younger man as possible.

They stay attached like Zayn's life depends on it until he decides that it doesn't anymore; Liam won't dare make that decision for him.

But when they do part, it's only to trade one form of intimacy for another.

"Go home," Zayn eventually demands with a smile, when he pulls away from their kiss, head ducked down in a rare sign of shyness. "You're making me emotional on the fucking sidewalk."

There's his boyfriend.

Liam rocks forward just enough for their lips to touch again briefly, then turns away with a grin. Because he knows. Being the one responsible for making Zayn "emotional on the fucking sidewalk" is like winning the lottery, previous suspicions be damned.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Fitting his key into his front door always ends up being a struggle any time Zayn's overzealous. Or drunk. Which is probably to blame for most of his lock related troubles, but tonight's different.

He bursts into the flat on his fourth attempt to find Louis watching TV alone; the volume lower than it usually is tells Zayn that Harry's probably already asleep.

Unphased by the sudden entrance, Louis barely glances over his shoulder before going back to watching the flatscreen in front of him.

"How'd it go?" He asks, turning the volume down even lower when Zayn joins him on the loveseat after leaving his shoes at the door.

"Couldn't have been better."

As Zayn feverishly undoes his tie and starts to take off his jacket, he senses the judgement in Louis' stare.

"You're serious," Louis states, rather than asks. "Did Liam blow you in one of the empty rooms to keep you sane?"

"God, I wish."

It's a nice visual to have, but Zayn's still not done scolding himself for letting Liam take public transport and not his sixty quid for a cab home. He should've forced the man into a car, not be ok with knowing his tattoo would alert him if Liam was in danger.

"I need your help," he adds, undoing the buttons of his shirt and pushing the material off his left arm first so Hera can jump out. Her miniature body lands on the carpet, growing to full size in three seconds flat.

Louis tucks his feet up onto the sofa so the tigress has ample space to lay. "I guess this means your supervillain hiatus is over then?"

"This is it Lou," Zayn declares enthusiastically, throwing his dress shirt on top of where he previously discarded his jacket. "This is the big one."

"I'm scared to ask what that means."

"My boss pulled me aside and introduced me to this woman from one of our partner organizations. I'll be honest," Zayn divulges, "I tuned out most of it." Neither look surprised, not even when staring at Zayn involves watching him unzip his trousers and shimmy them off. "But before I went back to get Liam so we could leave, she mentioned how on Friday, her son-in-law's going to be attending a military fundraiser in that same building."

Louis gazes on, confused. And not because Zeus is now free to cuddle up next to the other wild animal in the sitting room. "What am I missing?"

Folding up his clothes, Zayn smirks to himself. "Who do I hate the most in this world?"

"You've got it narrowed down to one?"

Both laugh quietly at Louis' sarcasm, the younger of the two getting up and walking to his room so he can hang up his suit and grab a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that are reserved for sleeping in.

"The bloke who sold your sister?" Louis guesses when Zayn's back in his presence.

"Yes," Zayn replies between gritted teeth, choosing to sit down next to his pets this time. "But if it weren't for the West inserting themselves into our business and letting civilians pay for terrorist mistakes, I could've stayed in Pakistan. My sister and I wouldn't have ever had to cross the border to begin with. The only greater target than a room full of British soldiers, would be one full of Americans.

"I'm gonna get the three other leftover villains to do the groundwork," he informs Louis. "They owe me. Plus, if I threaten them again with your intelligence, they definitely won't say no. Which leads me to you. I need you to-"

"Wait." A held out hand and a face of disgust hints at what's to come. "You've already said too much," Louis tells him. "I can't help you if I know beforehand that you're going to use my intel to kill people."

Regardless of his friend's strongly worded desire to stay out of his plans, Zayn goes on to relay what he came up with on the cab ride home anyway.

"I'm going to have George," he pats the tattoo of a monkey wearing a spacesuit on his upper right arm, "place explosives in the main room. Spark will enter the building's wiring and detonate the bombs by tripping the electrical system. I just need to know where the most strategic spots are for George to attach the fuses to. I already scoped out some of the ducts when I was supposedly in the toilet." He turns his head away from where he's petting Zeus and towards Louis. "You supplying me with blueprints and the building's electricity map would merely be a way for me to save time. It's happening no matter what. You won't be saving anyone if you decide to become a hero all of a sudden and refuse me help."

So maybe that was a little blunt, but it's the truth.

"This could be satisfying enough to end my streak for good," Zayn continues, bringing things down to a level he knows will erase the glare of betrayal Louis' giving him. "That's what you want, isn't it? That's what Harry wants? For me to quit using my powers for evil?" He drops his raised eyebrows, only to bring them together in determination. "They deserve to pay, just like I, and the rest of the developing world have had to do for decades. There couldn't be a more fitting way for me to end this than by making sure the crusaders who started this all, suffer."

Zayn's up and off the floor immediately after delivering the final knockout punch, his animals following in his shadow, leaving Louis to make his own decision. Alone, like Zayn found him.

No regret or shame weighs Zayn down when he slides into bed, his guardians curled up around each other, on lookout next to the metal frame. How could there be when he's sent a " **home, wish you were here"** text and given the opportunity to enact the picture perfect revenge? Any person would fall asleep like a baby with a night like that.

* * *

**L**

* * *

Unlike the rest of the population who associate Fridays with victorious relief, Liam can't wait for them to be over. It's always the busiest day of the week at the centre. People trying to get set-up with housing for the weekend since the foundations who handle temporary, charitable housing are always closed Saturday and Sunday. Having to process all those people while also managing an advice session on university and the self-defense class he'd gotten approved to lead. Friday's are a lot. And working for a non-profit always means the ratio of workers to clientele are way off, so if one of his coworkers calls in sick or gets pulled away to handle an unexpected incident, Liam's the one to pick up the slack.

For once, he couldn't be happier that Zayn's busy for the evening. It means he doesn't have to _try_. With his appearance, with his demeanor, any of it. Niall had offered for him to join in at the pub after work, but even that felt like too much effort for the night. What he wants is to go home, put his feet up, watch telly, and relax with a big bowl of chocolate fudge ice cream. And that's exactly what he does.

So he doesn't freeze, he holds the three serving size tub of ice cream through the blanket that's wrapped around his shoulders. He takes his first spoonful and closes his eyes in bliss, the sweetness from the sugar mixed together with the slight bitterness of the dark chocolate chunks is too much to handle.

" _AOI, clear sighting of UFO headed West along the Thames ATT. CO19 and TFU needed. TAG and ARU, standby for assistance_."

"Oh for fucks sake," Liam moans loudly into the empty flat, leaning his head against the back of the couch in vexation at the heaviest dispatch he's ever heard.

Because he knows he's going to need it, Liam shoves two more bites of ice cream in his mouth before tossing the tub back into the freezer and throwing on his signature suit.

Zipping in and out the cars crowding the London streets only becomes difficult when Liam spots his enemy hovering over the riverbank's north side, near Tower Bridge. Wearing bright red and yellow gets you a lot of second glances when you're slowed down, but he needs to wait and see where the machine's final destination is before he speeds up again. He gets his answer cruising along Southwark's main roads: Tower Hill.

Behind the famed Tower of London lives a bustling business district, home to countless corporate banks and law firms. It's a mix of new builds and older, making it an idealistic example of modern Europe. There's just one issue that Liam has with it: hardly any window-less alleys or balconies to climb up.

Thin lanes can be found here and there, but none are deadends. He's idling in the middle of an open walkway when he looks up and sees that the saucer's just on the other side of the building he's behind.

After searing the kickstand of his bike to the cement, he thinks on his feet and runs to the opening of the path where the main road lies. There, he watches as a delivery truck drives towards him. Timing it just right, he jumps onto the back, hoists himself onto the roof, and then waits until the truck passes by a business sign sticking out from a shopfront so he can throw himself towards it.

He's ready for the impact when it comes, immediately melting the white stone exterior of the building with his hands and hardening it around his grip. It takes a lot of energy, but he continues using the same method to scale the remaining six stories.

On the roof, the windchill sets in. By nature, Kevlar's quite thick, but Liam can feel the night breeze cut into his suit hard as he gathers his breath and assesses his surroundings, noting that the UFO's within a close distance like he'd estimated on the ground.

Next to the one he's standing on, there's a residential building made of similar white stone material. From its pointed roof stem several silver antennas. In a second, they're being withdrawn from their posts and summoned to where Liam can work them into javelins. He knows his powers take concentration, of which he can sometimes lose when he's having to dodge real superpowers and not just some guy with a scarf over his face trying to rob an electronic store. So the more free time he has to prepare for the upcoming battle, the better.

By melting down a larger satellite from a nearby glass structure, Liam's able to form criss-crossed tendrils and set them, effectively creating a cage large enough to hold a single man. He's about to make a bulletproof shield when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees lights start to blink around the UFO.

The small white lights seize their flickering to let the major one that Liam knows as the UFO's exit signal, shine straight down. It illuminates a flat rooftop two or three floors shorter than the one Liam's perched on.

Eyes shielded from the brightness, he squints to try and make out who his opponents will be, but as he does, it dawns on him that the building two adult men are being sent down to is attached to the same one he and Zayn were sat in two nights ago.

Before Liam can give it too much thought, he's left wondering it means for him that one of the men deposited onto the roof is sucked inside a large generator box situated in its center. He does the same when the beam of light disappears and the second man, a redhead, waves right at him.

It's unnerving how taunting the action comes across. Being covert wasn't a part of the plan, yet being acknowledged that casually rubs Liam the wrong way. The sensation grows when the same hand that had greeted him so cheerfully, starts to hurl molten lava down at the streets.

Liam races to the edge of the terrace to see that two splotches of black tar are now along the front steps of the banquet hall. Luckily, no one's anywhere near the entrance.

Liam's eyes widen when several high pitched screams come from inside the building. The lights have just been cut.

When he looks up from the high windows and the person responsible for the oozing lava that's now eating through the sidewalk is gone, panic sets in.

He glances at the UFO that hasn't moved or made any noises since staking its claim in the sky. Out of protective instinct, he stretches his arm out behind him and beckons one of his newly made javelins. But it isn't needed, the villain resurfaces on the sidewalk near where his corrosive discharge is.

Without hemorrhaging any more time, Liam looks for a way down, spotting a window cleaner's set up only a few floors below him that'll do the job. In less than ten seconds, he's made it to the street, but that's all it's taken for the entire front set of stairs and the surrounding sidewalk to be covered in reddish-black molten.

Dropping his javelin, Liam uses his telekinesis to rip a fire hydrant that's encircled by lava up from the pavement. A threatening hiss comes from the deep red substance as water falls, but the temperature's nowhere near cold enough to stop its creeping flow. Liam hardens a portion with his mind, but he can't finish the rest because of the street being sprayed with a fresh coat of lava.

Frantically, Liam examines his immediate vicinity for strategic agents of use.

_What's strong enough to stop lava from spreading?_

Concrete? Glass? Rubber? Metal? Bingo.

At the end of the street, a construction truck supplying industrial titanium pipes has been abandoned. It's parked in front of a half-finished structure, beams and tons of other exposed metals on display, but they won't be as pure.

Instantly, one of the three meter pipes flies towards Liam, stopping right above the villain's head where Liam wills it to. At the snap of his fingers, it's raining titanium.

The man cries out in pain, falling to his knees like he's just lost his ability to stand. He looks pale at being drained of all his strength, a sign that it's safe for Liam to redirect his energy towards the growing mass that's still obstructing any exit for those inside the building in front of him.

Seeing how effective the titanium was in disarming the man to his right, Liam decides to do the same with the barrier that's been made. He's in the middle of attempting to move the hardened lava that's bonded to the cement underneath it when another ray of light blinds him. It's a lot brighter than the last, and as he turns around, he realizes why.

Rather than being transported onto the roof, a teenage girl has appeared next to where Mr. Volcano is still covered in silver and struggling to stay awake. Police sirens start to close in on their block, but once the blue and yellow cars turn the corner, they come to a screeching halt thanks to the new lava induced pits in the road. Liam swears he sees a monkey wearing astronaut gear and holding a backpack run across the street too. But that could've been a hallucination, he's had to exercise his powers in closer succession than he's used to.

Several ear splitting cracks cause him to whip his head back towards the banquet hall. The noise is followed by more screams and a powerful explosion that sounds like more than one power fuse shorting at the same time. None of the lower windows allow for outsiders to see in, but Liam can tell from the higher ones that a fire's broken out from the glimmers of red showing. No matter how many people are inside, he needs to find a way to get them out before the flames grow.

Force the window panes out of their frames so any smoke that gathers has a route to escape, Liam can do that.

It helps, but the doors are still secured shut and he hasn't finished ridding the remaining boiling lava of its harmful properties. The building's walls are too large of a surface area, otherwise he would rip them off with his powers no problem.

In the middle of racking his brain for a more efficient solution, Liam's knocked to the ground.

He scrambles to his feet quickly, catching his javelin from off the street with his magnetic palm before he's caught off guard again.

Arms crossed and right leg jutted out to her side like she couldn't be more bored, the female who came down from the still hovering UFO waits for Liam to make a move. He looks at the hall and then back at the girl, willing the spear to fly through the air towards his enemy, not with the intention to kill her, but to pin her blue hoodie to the sedan behind her. The metal stabs the hood of the car with a piercing _quap!,_ no teen attached. She's several meters away, mocking Liam with an exaggerated yawn.

The hero groans to himself as she zips across the width of the street with supersonic speed.

_Why couldn't you just be a truant?_

* * *

**Z**

* * *

Spacious as it is, there's not enough room for the immense tension that's building inside the UFO. Zayn's palms are sweating, and not from Magma (he always makes sure to let him out first because melted skin equals melted tattoos equals no powers so he's hypothesized). They're clammy from the nerves that come with trying to pull off his most ambitious attack yet.

Knobs and switches galore cover the control panel in front of Zayn's leather seat, a few screens too. On one, grainy footage of the banquet hall's main room can be seen. It's from a low perspective that Zayn knows as his monkey's. His proof - the outline of its four-fingered hands placing one of the bombs Zayn bought off the dark web in what looks to be an air vent.

He looks up, watching through the strip of one-way glass that expands around the entire command center, Red Valor get the runaround from a fourteen year old. He's got his giant metal toothpick, yet he's spending so much time having to guess where Bolt will end up next, that he's constantly holding himself back from throwing it again.

It's no surprise that the man in the red and yellow suit showed up to foil his plans, but Zayn came prepared. All it took was picking the brains of his fellow villains about their recent encounters with the hero for him to pinpoint one vital common denominator - Red Valor requires heavy concentration to perform. Something Bolt's having no problem disrupting.

Pressing down on one of the control panel's buttons, Zayn leans forward to speak into the connected square grate, "Spark, you good?"

All of the red dots indicating the building's surge points light up once, then twice on the electrical layout spread across another one of the LCD screens.

While Zayn appreciates the response, it makes his heart skip a beat. Spark may have been able to escape jail on his own through one of the guards' radios, but he's not the most precise with his manipulation of electricity or the internet. One wrong controller channeled and he could've prematurely set off the three bombs George has already put out.

Over a separate intercom, Louis' voice patches through. "I'm showing armed police cars closing in with a ten minute radius."

Shit. There's no telling how much damage the saucer can take coming from mounted, automatic weapons. If they're going to stand any chance of not finding out, everyone involved needs to hurry it the fuck up.

Back on the street, the tables have turned. Bolt's gained ownership of the spear and tried her hand at taking off Red Valor's head with it, but the only reason she almost succeeds is because the hero's busy pulling the windscreen off a car. And from experience, that's the only thing Zayn needs to see to know it's all downhill from there.

He learned early on that despite Bolt being a valuable asset on account of her ability to hardly ever get caught, her eagerness always manages to turn into carelessness. As seen in the way she prioritizes retrieving the spear for a second chance at murder over paying attention to where she's running next - straight into the piece of glass. In the blink of an eye, a cage soars down from a close by rooftop and traps her inside, smoke coming from where the metal's been singed to the street.

"I don't have enough time for this," Zayn huffs to himself, running through his list of tattoos that could be of use.

He stops on one. It's risky, and dangerous quite frankly. Zayn's only used it once out of boredom and curiosity on a police officer riding a horse. It freaked both of them out so much, that he never touched it again. Besides, he felt it carried an element of cheating. But when the hero decked out in bright colours starts to advance towards the targeted building, Zayn has no choice but to string together the letters strewn about his upper left arm and form the phrase "Mind of Mine".

Drawing on all of his focus and staring intently at the hero below, a sense of control can be felt by Zayn, like he's acquired a second brain, easily manipulatable. He orders the man to stop in his tracks with only his thoughts, no words. It works, but only for a couple of seconds because there's a searing pain in his right hip, stronger than he's ever felt before. It's past the point of a sharp stinging, venturing more along the lines of what Zayn imagines a cattle must feel like being branded by the end of red hot iron.

"Fuck!" he shouts in agony, doubling over with both his hands pressing into the tattoo that's causing him unimaginable misery.

"What's going on?" Louis cuts in on edge.

As the heat dissipates rapidly, Zayn's able to find his voice. "Is Harry with you?"

"Yeah," Louis replies, the sound of light shuffling a signal that he's double checking. "What's wrong?"

Zayn lifts his black zip-up and the matching t-shirt underneath to see if there's any visual to his sudden torment. The black-filled heart sits undisturbed. "Make sure he's ok, and if he is, have him call Mum and Dad to see if they are."

"Will do."

He's still shaken up by the incident, but there's no time to dwell on it. He's got just enough time to pull out his phone and dial Liam before Red Valor stops shaking his head furiously and gets back to work.

"C'mon Liam," he begs quietly, eyes staying on the ground as the phone rings once, twice, three times.

After the fourth he gets, "Hi, sorry I'm not available to-"

The call's ended in frustration, and for a second, Zayn thinks about trying Niall real quick, but before he can, he drops his phone. The superhero's just used his long metal staff and a running start to vault himself into one of the building's top windows. Zayn's not about to let some front page celebrity ruin his one chance at ultimate retaliation.

Half of the ship's floor retracts open as the wings on Zayn's chest shift from his chest to in between his shoulder blades and grow through his clothing's mesh. Before taking flight, he fishes out his mask from within his black trouser pocket and pulls it down over his face. With headphones secured and uptempo rap energizing him for the imminent fight, Black Blood's ready.

Floating out into the open air, it becomes apparent that the only way Zayn's going to be able to withstand the thick smoke escaping the building's high windows is to shield his lungs. To do so, he guides the tattoo he has of a set up from where it normally sits on his lower left leg up to where his rib cage lives and just like that, when he flies head first into the wall of smoke, his breathing is completely unaffected. The only issue he's left with now is how to find one person in a crowd of hundreds.

With the security system locked down courtesy of Spark, the service members and their families are stuck in the main ballroom, trying to find a way out. Deep 808's flow through Zayn's headphones as he scours the packed room highlighted by red and orange hues, making sure to avoid their two origin points greatly. Each fire's licking up the walls, using the paintings and ornate decorations they're adorned with as fuel. Thankfully smoke rises, but even so, Zayn can't locate his enemy anywhere.

_This is going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack._

Swooping downward to one of the tables, he calls upon Zeus, ordering him to sniff out the man through the smoke, but right as the wolf materializes, a massive weight sends Zayn soaring across the room.

He lands on his side with a hard _thud_ , the wooden podium that had been centre stage to blame. While he's got the chance, Zayn pulls Zeus back into his leg, scanning the room to see if he can make George out anywhere. His specific instructions were to climb up to the roof when he's done placing the bombs, but if he's done now, Zayn will gladly pick him up and carry him back to the ship himself. Unfortunately, there's no sign of the monkey anywhere, just the man who's most likely caused a gruesome bruise to his left shoulder. And he's got a sword.

_Where the fuck..._

His wings launch him off the floor just in time to miss the sharpened tip slicing off his arm. Inside his right middle finger Zayn's got a blue lightsaber that he can fight with, and for a moment, he almost takes it out, but the fire's are growing. Allowing himself to get fenced in by flames would be a death wish.

Mustering up his strength, Zayn plunges down to where the hero's waiting in a ready stance with his weapon. Before he gets too close and gives the man the ability to swipe at him, he turns on his mind control.

If it weren't for his wings navigating him out of the building through the same window he came in, Zayn wouldn't be able to lift whoever's under the suit, both because of their muscular physique and due to the waves of thermal pain that are washing over him. His eyes slam shut as he wills himself to continue to the roof, gripping the pliant male harder to channel his pain somewhere other than his scorching body.

By the time they reach the top of the banquet hall, Zayn feels like he's going to pass out from the heat. It's like he's burning from within, and if he didn't care to be identified, he'd rip all his clothes off right after dropping the hero onto the cement terrace to seek relief.

The sword clatters next to Red Valor's body, its reflective surface catching some of the city lights; they shine bright enough that Zayn has no trouble making out the person five meters in front of him.

"Louis," Zayn whispers, taking the time to gather his strength back now that the anguish is starting to subside and his wings have retracted.

Static interrupts his music, a sign that the communication portion of his headphone's powers are working, but he doesn't get a response.

His eyes flicker up to see that the other man's recuperating from his stupor just as quickly, slapping the side of his head on his way back to standing.

It's a race against time, who can be the fastest to draw their next weapon.

A deck of playing cards emerges from under Zayn's arm, the initials "ZM" on each. He slides one between his pointer and middle finger, then tosses it like it's a Chinese throwing star knowing that its edges are just as razor sharp as one upon impact. But before the card can cut through its target's suit and into his stomach to illustrate its deadliness, the man dodges out of the way. He does the same with the second and third just as effortlessly.

"Your mum and dad are fine," Louis radios in as Zayn's about to fling another card.

His moment of apprehension at hearing his friend's voice laid over music creates the tiniest of windows for Red Valor to tear a brick chimney off a neighboring townhome and start to reshape it as a shield.

Because it seems to be the only way to ensure he has the upper hand, Zayn flicks the mind control back on. But it doesn't last, his knees nearly buckle in pain while the other man cradles his head in between his forearms.

"You need to find Liam," Zayn says under his breath urgently, praying that Louis can pull through and locate his boyfriend. He's not going to be able to hold off from enacting his grand plan any longer now that he knows Liam's somewhere in the city, hurting. Possibly dying if he's to go by how debilitating each fever's been that's surged through his body.

Suddenly, Zayn finds himself crashing to the ground. When he looks down his body, he sees that his feet have been lassoed by a vine. There's no telling where the hero scavenged it from, but Zayn doesn't care, he's seriously starting to get pissed off.

A small jolt of energy flows from Zayn's "ZAP!" tattoo on the lower half of his right arm, through to the vine.

Without being able to see it, the hero has no way of anticipating the electric shock. His hand jerks like the rest of his body and he drops to the ground, stunned. It's just the reaction that Zayn needs to come up with his knockout move.

As he leans up to untangle himself, he releases Kiwi, ordering him to fetch a considerable amount of water. In the meantime, Zayn needs a distraction. A big one.

"He's not picking up," Louis interjects nervously while Hera stretches her back legs, moving on to putting her sharp teeth on display when she's ready for her prey. "I found Niall's number. As far as he knows, Liam's at their place."

"No..."

"Zayn?"

Before he can even think of the repercussions, Zayn's turning on his mind control to stop the sword that his enemy's picked up from impaling the tiger that's closed in on him.

Hera jumps and grabs the sword with her mouth, knocking the hero down on his back like he's as light as a feather. Since she hasn't been given the order to kill, she merely holds her plaything down with one giant paw on his chest.

Zayn clenches his jaw in misery, a gutteral noise escaping from the back of his throat at the thermal heat pulsing through him, but he powers through it, forcing his legs to move forward, one foot at a time.

As soon as he's reached her, Zayn takes the sword from Hera's mouth. She absorbs back into his skin through the mesh holes at the same time her owner disables the power that's kept him from harnessing the focus to skewer the person below him.

Enough's enough, he needs to get to Liam.

With both hands gripped tightly around the sword's handle, Zayn lifts the blade high above his head to ensure it'll go all the way through the man's body. He's about to watch the tip spear the body below him when he loses his balance and topples backwards, the sword slipping out of his grasp and landing on the concrete just as hard as his body. But he can't grab it, the man that's now above him, has his arms pinned down too tightly.

"Where'd you get these?" The man behind the suit yells, holding up the pair of headphones that he's just yanked off Zayn's head.

All at once, the atmospheric sounds of central London, mixed with the terrified screams of those in the burning building beneath them, hit Zayn at full force. The sensory overload alone would normally be enough to piss him off, but tack on his protection from audible trauma being taken and being spoken to while in villain mode, and he's seeing red as deep as the pits of hell he knows he's destined for. The person above him should be grateful they're so strong, anyone else would be in pain unlike any other.

"Can you hear me?"

Zayn ignores the other's shout and the discomfort that comes with the extra shoving down of his shoulders, Kiwi's back. It flutters in place, right above the hero's head, with the handle of a watering canister used for gardening clutched in its miniature talons. It's perfect. Just what's needed for Zayn's plan: drench Red Valor with water, then shock him to death with electricity.

Before he can order his enemy dead, the man shouts, "Where's Zayn?" taking his hands away from Zayn's shoulders to point to the initials etched on the side of one earphone.

Under his mask, Zayn can feel himself go white. No one knows of the meaning behind the carving, it's too insignificant. He doubts anyone even notices it's there at all. Only when he's fighting or it's too packed on public transport for him to open a book does he steal them off his robot's head for himself.

A swift punch lands Zayn square in the jaw.

"Where is he!?"

Hardly any time's given for a response before another powerful hit comes.

To flex his jaw, Zayn tries to open and close his mouth, though it must look like he's about to give an answer since he's granted relief for several moments after, but when the only sounds that can be heard are the sirens on the street below and more terrified screams, another jab leads to a mouthful of pooling blood. Without a mouth hole in his mask to spit it out of, he's got no choice but to swallow the liquid as it comes and deal with the copper aftertaste.

Each time he's forced to take a blow, instinctively, Zayn closes his eyes. And every time he reopens them, he looks to Kiwi, not his assailant; he refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing the struggle to breath behind his eyes.

Finally, after Zayn feels as though his jaw has been broken and he's one hit away from a coughing fit due to the constant blood running to the back of his throat, he devises a Plan B.

"Ok," he chokes out, ironically having to cough some to be able to do so.

The punches stop like he'd hoped they would, though one is cocked back, ready to go as a warning.

But the man doesn't get a confession, instead, he gets to listen to an Urdu command.

"Drop the water. Take off his mask."

It all happens so fast - the water canister clattering onto the ground, the hero's utterance of confusion after being thrown off by the sound behind him that ends up melding into resistant badgering when he feels the Lycra being pulled off his head - that Zayn isn't sure if what he's seeing is real, or just a delayed side effect of his heat waves.

"Liam..."

He's more panicked than Zayn's ever seen him, but there's no mistaking who's bewildered eyes those are. At any given moment, they're usually staring at Zayn with a lifetime's worth of adoration and acceptance, warmth and pure love. They're Zayn's ticket to a brighter future. Just like those lips are his free pass to feeling trustworthy again. They've kissed every inch of his body, not because he's asked them to, but because Liam's trust in him is so great, that the younger male's been able to indulge himself in the most vulnerable form of intimacy without worrying about being hurt.

There's no denying it. This is his Liam.

Just in time, Zayn notices the discarded sword being summoned their way. He doesn't want to find out if his bandana would be able to heal a sliced open stomach, so to keep breathing, he does the only thing he can do.

The shrill clattering of metal meeting pavement ricochets off the roofs ledges when Liam lays his eyes on a familiar face.

"Zayn?" He whispers, voice trembling.

Both their heads turn to the back of the building when another fuse box explodes.

"We have to get out of here," Zayn urges, standing and spitting out the blood that's still gathering in his mouth now that his mask's off. "That's the signal." He waves Kiwi to get back under his kit, simultaneously growing back his wings. "We've got two minutes and then this place is gonna blow. Come on!"

Liam catches his mask that Zayn throws at him, but he doesn't move, just stares at the other who's ridding himself of a bloody mouth before concealing his identity once more. His shock's warranted, and truthfully, Zayn feels the same way, but he also didn't plan on dying that night. At least, not because of his own doing.

"We can talk about this later," Zayn promises desperately. "We need to go."

At that, something clicks within Liam. "I need to save them," he declares, pulling his mask on and taking off for the roof's edge.

Zayn yells after him, but it's too late, he's all alone.

"Abort mission," he cries after securing his headphones back on and flying in the direction Liam's disappeared.

"There you are," Louis replies immediately. "We lost connection for a bit, it was weird."

He knows it's not possible, but before he soars into the chaos he's currently staring at, billows of smoke greater than minutes past, Zayn tries again, "Abort mission!"

Out of the last window comes George, backpack empty.

"What? Spark's already tripped the bombs, there's no turning back. You've got a little over a minute before it's game over."

Zayn doesn't reply, just sails into the smoke, picking up George along the way and pushing him back where he belongs, a part of Zayn's vast arsenal. The chemicals in the black clouds cause Zayn's eyes to water while the high temperature intensifies his nerves. He's smart enough to fly lower than the line of smoke, but it's still difficult to make out many details of the scene below despite the room being lit up in bright red.

This time around, it's easier to pick Liam out of the crowd. He's using his powers to hurl as many of the room's heaviest pieces of furniture at the walls since the doors leading to the lobby have been overtaken by flames. A significant dent's been made from the countless tables Liam's cast at the wall, but it's nowhere near an escapable hole.

With time ticking down, Zayn knows that the only way he's going to get Liam out of here is to help.

_What has love done to me?_

Quickly, he takes out the skull slingshot from his right arm, aims it at the wall Liam's chipping away at and launches a cannonball. It may be small in size, but its destruction is massive. Insulation scatters on contact, a gaping hole in its place.

Dive bombing down, Zayn puts his weapon away, lifting Liam from under his arms as soon as he gets close enough. Immediately, he makes a beeline for one of the windows, hugging Liam close to his body when he feels the man try to wiggle his way free.

He knows he's going to regret it, but Liam leaves him no choice.

_It's for your own good._

The searing pain comes back heavier than ever. For two blocks, Zayn's subjected to it extracting his strength; Liam almost gets dropped a few times along the way because of it too.

At block three, a violent explosion from behind steals Zayn's attention and relinquishes Liam's autonomy.

He clings to Zayn tightly once he registers that he's fifty meters in the air. Then, the bone chilling sound of a structure's foundation giving way echoes throughout the otherwise quiet city.

Before Liam has a chance to react, Zayn beams them into his UFO.

* * *

**L**

* * *

Up until that night, Liam had never known for white noise to exist in the form of a sensation. It's what he imagines prisoners in isolation must feel like sitting in a white room for weeks on end. At least in their case, they have control of their limbs. Not being able to move his extremities freely was one of the most unsettling feelings of Liam's life; the simultaneous static that silently buzzed through his brain when it happened was just an added bonus. A truly helpless experience of being trapped in your own body, that's what mind control feels like. The recovery, well, that's something Liam's still getting used to.

He's found that shaking his head helps some. No tiny little mind control bug's going to fall out as a result, he knows this, but along with heavy blinking, it seems to lift the leftover fog a little bit.

Around him are steel walls that are rounded into a dome ceiling, a recessed light at its center point. The room's sizable; it could fit up to ten others in addition to Liam and Zayn.

At least, Liam thinks the man standing in front of the convoluted panelboard is Zayn.

He's facing away from Liam, still wearing his mask, but it's irrefutable. And yet, he doesn't deserve to be called by his name. This person isn't Liam's Zayn, isn't who he fell in love with. Yes, Zayn was rough around the edges. And yes, Zayn had a temper worth more than a thousand men. But he wasn't a killer. He wasn't a cold blooded murderer who went out and planned things like what Liam had just witnessed. That's not his Zayn. Then, it occurs to him.

"Where are you taking me?"

The darkened figure doesn't speak. Nor does it move. At their side are the signatory headphones that got them here, which means Liam's been heard. Zayn's keeping quiet voluntarily.

Liam storms across the open floor, "I said, where are you-"

"Here."

Outside the expansive front window Liam can see that they've landed in a meadow. It's not anywhere he's been. It's also not at all close to the city they were flying over less than a minute ago.

Zayn walks out of a side panel that's opened, leaving Liam no choice but to follow. He could try and navigate the ship back home, leave the man wherever they are like he deserves, but one look at the control panel's various buttons and Liam knows he'd only embarrass himself.

The grass brushes up against his ankles, overgrown in a natural way, like this patch of land hasn't been explored by anyone else. The air's fresh, but cold, no trees to shield the gusts of wind from flowing freely at top speed. Above head, the stars shine brighter than Liam thought was possible this far away on Earth. If it weren't for the ring of lights wrapped around the UFO, his eyes wouldn't have a problem identifying his immediate surroundings because of them.

A few yards ahead, Zayn pulls off his mask and ruffles up his hair. Taking that as a signal that it's safe, Liam does the same.

Right away, he feels exposed. Nowhere in the distance can he see any sign of life; he can't hear any sound other than his own elevated breathing. Even so, he still can't help his instinct to want to conceal his identity once more.

Zayn's got his arms crossed over his chest, face set firm. "Are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there and stare?"

He's being given the upperhand, able to say or ask anything he wants, but Liam's whirling brain suddenly becomes idle. There aren't any burning questions he can grab onto anymore, so he sticks with the most simplest of statements.

"I don't understand."

"What's not to understand?" Zayn's scoff wakes up Liam's sleeping anger. "You're him," he points to the mask dangling in Liam's right hand, "and I'm..."

Liam's eyes narrow at the other's black mask being rustled, "And you're ok with that?"

"No!" The sudden outburst nearly throws the younger male off his game. "Of course I'm not ok with that! But what am I supposed to say?" Zayn opens his arms wide, "That I feel betrayed?"

That's all Liam needs to hear to snap.

" _You?_ " He says in disbelief, fingers curling around the material in their grasp until they've formed a fist. " _You_ feel betrayed? I'm the one who was prepared to die trying to save hundreds of people. That was your doing!"

"And look who saved you," Zayn throws back harshly.

"Do you want me to thank you?" Enraged, Liam points at his chest. "For rescuing me and leaving the rest to die?"

"They were supposed to!" Zayn ignores the other's shocked expression, directing his own finger at Liam's upper body passionately. "You showing up almost ruined everything!"

As he tries to process the words that have just come out of Zayn's mouth, Liam's left hand matches his right and curls into a ball. "What'd they do that's deservent of death?" He asks in a dangerously calm manner.

"Everything!" In an explosive fit, Zayn throws his mask to the ground and frenetically tears off his zip-up. "They made me like this!" He screams, buzzing with energy that's appeared virtually out of nowhere. "I wasn't always this angry! I wasn't always in this much pain! The military and what they stand for, they robbed me of my innocence! They came into _my_ country and they took what wasn't theirs! They killed my friends, my neighbors, harmless people who did nothing other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And for what?" Zayn prompts rhetorically, voice cracking from how worked up he's made himself. "To prove that they know what's best?"

From where he's standing, Liam can make out the man's chest heaving for air. The silent tears, he can see those too, their tracks reflecting off the stars' brightness.

"They were trying to stop a war," he reasons sensibly.

"You don't know anything!" Zayn cries, taking one step forward, then one back. "You can't say anything to me! Look at your skin!" Liam feels his cheeks go red in self-degradation. "Listen to your voice! I don't care if you grew up without money, I grew up without a family!"

Liam's about to open his mouth, argue that Zayn shouldn't start a competition over who had it worse because he hasn't been made privy to all of Liam's struggles to feel as confident that he'd win as he sounds. He's yet to find out about the two months before secondary school that Liam had to spend on the bus, towing his dad around from doctor to doctor because of a flare up in the man's leg. Or how Liam slept on the couch in three layers of clothing in addition to a heavy blanket in order to survive winters without heating. Zayn hasn't been told about these parts of his life under the poverty line. Liam's spared him on purpose, but if he wants to battle for sympathy, they'll battle.

And then he hears, "My father gave away his entire life's savings to have my sister and I smuggled here" and any strife within him is lost.

"We had to hide underneath the car's floorboards every time we reached a checkpoint," Zayn continues heatedly. "Drive through crossfire! At age nine, did _you_ have to make the decision to put your life on the line to ensure your sister didn't take a bullet? While grenades were going off all around?" Eyes wild, he gestures at Liam dramatically, " _Did you?_ "

For a few moments, all that can be heard besides the grass blowing in the wind is Zayn's frantic breathing. He's emotionally charged, unpredictable. Yet Liam still tries to think of something to tell him that might make even the smallest of impacts.

Nothing comes. His heart's lodged too deeply in his throat.

"You have no idea what it's like to get drugged and woken up, only to realize that you're alone." A violent sniffle rips through the air. "That the _one_ thing your father asked of you - to look after your sister - you didn't do. You allowed for her to be sold!" As the younger male's lips part in surprise, the older's open to release a sob so broken, it nearly brings Zayn to his knees. "I had to lie, Liam! I had to lie to Immigration when I got here and tell them my parents were dead because I couldn't ever have them finding out what I let happen to Waliyha."

He points out into the vast meadow, "They did that! The military, the human traffickers, the privileged people of the world, the radicals, they all made this!" With both fists, Zayn pulls at his black t-shirt like he wants to rip it off. "And they deserve to die for it! And so do their loved ones! So does anyone who isn't in pain like I am every day. It's not fair!"

Before each tear can fall from Liam's cheeks into the grass, he runs a hand over his face. He yearns to be able to take the other in his arms and whisper to him that he's not alone in having to feel this tortured anymore, that Liam's there to be able to unload some of the burden onto, but that compassion's gone at how Zayn chose to end his speech.

"Do I deserve it then?" Liam asks provokingly. "To die?"

Tears still run down into Zayn's short beard, but his jaw's clenched tight. "No."

"Why not? I don't feel pain on a daily basis. According to you, I deserve to." Staring straight into Zayn's squinting eyes, Liam taunts him even further, "Kill me."

Like Liam's, Zayn's hands turn into fists. "I'm not going to kill you," he maintains.

"For the same reason you don't kill Harry or Louis, right? Because you love me?" Playing the love card seems to spike Zayn's anger. "Picking and choosing who you put through hell proves that what you do is controllable." Liam glances away from the man in front of him to finally breathe. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I wasn't."

"So your plan was to sneak around my back and eliminate your enemies until I found out?"

"What about you?" Zayn retorts, his sharp tone causing Liam's eyes to flicker back forward. "I'm not the only one who's been keeping a secret."

"The difference being I go out and clean up your mess," Liam points out bitterly.

"I don't care if you go out and save the world, a secret's a secret." Again, a hand's run through the top of Zayn's hair. "I let my guards down around you."

"And I brought you to meet my family!" Liam shouts in rebuttal. An even worse image comes to mind. "I let you play with my nephew!"

"Stop making me out to be some wildcard psychopath," Zayn demands. "You know me!"

How could he say such a thing?

"No! No, I don't fucking know you. I thought I did," Liam admits ashamedly. "I thought I was in love with you, but I was in love with who you wanted me to think you were."

After all of that, the two men are back to where they started, standing in silence. Staring at each other with novels to say, but without the stamina to even begin reading the foreword.

"So now what?" Zayn asks, breaking the busied peace.

He's asking the wrong person because Liam's got no idea. The only thing that's crystal clear to him is how badly he wishes to be out of Zayn's presence.

"Take me home," he orders.

"Liam..."

"Take me home!"

Zayn doesn't try again. He enters his ship behind Liam and sits in his chair, away from where the other insists on standing against one of the far walls.

The ride lasts less than a minute, although Liam would've never guessed it by how smooth of a journey it was. Before he jumps down into the park nearest his flat that Zayn's taken it upon himself to choose as the safest drop off location, Liam turns to look him in the eye.

"I've killed people too. Evil people. Ones who never get the hint and continually break the law. If I see this thing, or you, or any of your mates, I won't hesitate to add you to my list."

\---------------------------

Maybe one day, ice cream carts will accept all forms of payment, not strictly cash. Typically, Liam carries a little something with him, but when he's on a run, he keeps it to his ID, one credit card, and his house key. He's jogged past two setups now on his way around Battersea Park and with the mid-July heat beating down on him, it's taken his full restraint to not run off course to the nearest ATM and pull out a fiver to get himself an orange ice lolly. At four kilometers down, four to go, he could use the cool relief.

It's not normal for him to go this far. On days he doesn't lift weights, his run will usually end up being half that of today, but lately, the eight kilometer distance has become his average; there's no better way for him to clear his head from its constant thinking. He can put in his earbuds and just...go. Sometimes that's at the park, along the dirt track that's guaranteed to be crowded with people who haven't gotten the memo that the path is for runners only, not for walking your dog. Other times he just takes off down the sidewalk outside his flat and sees how long he can go before he risks not having enough energy to make it home. Although, that can get to be a dangerous game. Once, he had to take the bus back after realizing too late how far he'd gotten.

But running's good. Running's mind numbing. Running's an excuse to put your phone on Do Not Disturb and not feel bad about it.

_Brrring! Brrring! Brrring!_

Then again, that setting only works if you don't have any override exceptions.

Tapping his right earbud, he braces himself. "Hello?"

"Hello love." Even through the phone, his mother's sweetness brings him the solace he's in need of. "How are things?"

 _Miserable_.

"Busy," Liam replies, voice tense as he lowers himself down onto a free patch of grass and collapses onto his back.

"Are you still working that extra day a week?"

It's been the key to keeping himself in the right of mind.

"Yeah."

"And Zayn?" The woman prods lightly. "Have you worked things out with him?"

Liam throws an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the sun rather than bathe in it, sighing as the real reason his mother's calling becomes clear, "Not exactly."

"It's been three weeks now since you told me you had your fight. You shouldn't hold a grudge Liam," she scolds, "it's not good for you."

Under his arm, the man's closed eyes squeeze tight. Each time he's spoken to his parents over the past few weeks, one of them never fails to bring up Zayn in the hopes they'll get lucky and Liam will spill the details on why they're having a row. At this point, he wonders if it's just best that he come out and tell her that they broke up. Except, they didn't. Well, not technically. Liam hasn't officially told Zayn that's how he felt, but he's also refused to take any of the other's calls, starting with the first, two days after their grand showdown and all through the next week. That's when the they stopped coming in. But if you don't talk, and you don't see each other for three weeks, it's a given that you're broken up. Right?

"What he did isn't something I can easily forgive," Liam discloses tiredly.

The woman clicks her tongue, "I wish you'd just tell me what that is. It can't be that bad."

For someone who's been kept in the dark about her own son being a superhero, there's no way Liam's about to let her in on Zayn's alter ego. However, he is desperate for a non-judgemental release, so a creative way of going about telling her the truth couldn't hurt.

"I found out he was keeping a secret from me," he settles on. "It's not my place to say it out loud. But, it's hard to look at him the same anymore."

"What's there now that you couldn't see before?"

Visions of a younger Zayn fleeing his country, soot and sweat plastered over his face like he's one of the soldiers and not an innocent child caught in their gunplay flash through Liam's mind. He's not sure if they're accurate, but honestly, he wouldn't be opposed to never hearing Zayn confirm or deny. And not because he doesn't care, but because caring's all he feels. Still, to this day.

On more than one occasion Liam found himself waking up in the middle of the night to sheets having been kicked off and an ache to return to his dream where he could finish rescuing the little boy he'd grow to fall in love with. The longing always drives him to want to pick up his phone so he can hear Zayn's voice. Not for anything other than to know he's alive, he's safe. It wouldn't take any more than a minute. If it weren't for caller ID, he'd hang up as soon as he heard the other's unique accent pick up. Knowing Zayn, his greeting probably wouldn't even be in English, but Liam didn't care to understand whatever he'd utter, so long as he heard something.

Should Zayn have simply forgotten his birthday or stood him up on a date, perhaps Liam would've acted on his romantic desires. Instead, he's left them to disappear on their own once he remembers Zayn's a murderer. That always seems to make resisting his mobile a lot easier. It might mean that he's stuck struggling with feeling bad about feeling bad, but at least in the morning he doesn't suffer from regret over caving in.

"He has a lot of temperament issues from his childhood," Liam answers grimly. "They were always there, I just overlooked them."

Rather than immediately speak her mind, Liam's mother takes her time before saying what she wants. "Does he treat _you_ well?"

Without hesitation, Liam replies, "the best."

"And how does he treat your friends?"

"Like they were his."

"Then he's not a bad person, he was just born into bad circumstances and they affected him differently than yours affected you."

Liam hates that she's most likely right. They're a lot more similar than he wants to believe or comes to term with. His empathetic side's to blame potentially, but if he were really done with Zayn he wouldn't still be on guard with himself, making sure he doesn't slip up and go running back to him. He'd grieve another failed relationship and move on. Punishing his body with an almost half marathon and unable to mutter the word "breakup" out loud isn't moving on.

"Don't you think that once people get to be my age, they are who they're always going to be?" Liam wonders curiously. "Statistics say he's probably not going to change."

His mother hums quietly, "I'm not so sure about that. Did you ever stop to think that maybe him keeping his anger in check around you proves that he's capable?"

Of all the ways he's viewed his situation, Liam's never thought of it from that angle. London _has_ been void of any supernatural attacks since that night; the only crimes he's busted have been the petty ones he's used to.

"Yeah," he sighs in agreement, "maybe."

"The only way he can change is for you to give him the chance. If you don't, how would you know if he's able?"

This is why she's exempt from Do Not Disturb.

"It's a shame Dad can't work," Liam quips. "You would've made a great advice columnist."

As the woman laughs, he can feel his lips finally curl into a smile.

"Bloody cars," she curses joyously before changing to a more serious tone. "You be careful on that motorcycle of yours. I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."

"I'm always safe," Liam reassures her, "don't worry."

"You better be." A long exhale can be heard on the other end of the phone, followed by immense disappointment. "Well, my break is almost over. I'll talk to you soon. I love you Liam."

"I love you too Mum."

Upon hanging up, Liam stays lying in the grass rather than going straight back to his run. He feels lonelier than he's felt in a while all of a sudden; a few minutes talking to your faraway Mother can do that to you. In any case, he's lucky he's got a Mother who cares about him enough to use what seldom freetime she gets throughout her workday on someone other than herself. A lot of people aren't gifted parental figures that are that devoted. And even some of those that are, don't get enough time to live with them in that undefined bliss.

Pulling his hand away allows for the sun to hit Liam in the eyes and forehead again. His face wants to immediately scrunch up from the pelting rays, but he catches himself before it can and relaxes into the heat.

* * *

**Z**

* * *

According to Zayn, the body's internal clock sucks. Most notably on the weekends, when he should be sleeping in way past seven, not tossing and turning like his brain's making him do. His only options are to cave in and get up or risk putting himself into a worse mood than he's already in.

Yeah, fuck that.

Since he's only going across the street, he doesn't change out of the shorts he fell asleep in. But he does need a top. Anything will do, as long as it's not the shirt Liam had left over. Zayn's since washed it and assigned it a hanger, but other than that, it's stayed untouched. A month and he can't bring himself to move it. Or worse, toss it.

He grabs the tee nearest to where he's standing in front of his clothing rack and throws it on.

Since most people are still sleeping, trudging down the building stairwell is a silent march. Zayn wishes his mind would take notes because it's been as loud as ever since he dropped Liam off after their massive blowout.

It didn't have to end there, their love story. Not in Zayn's eyes, but Liam made himself loud and clear when he never returned any of Zayn's calls or texts: he didn't want to hear from the older man ever again.

So, Zayn's gone to work, kept his head down, and tried his hardest not to dwell on the fact that he brought this on himself after taking a week to get over how he too had been deceived. Oftentimes, he finds himself wondering if Liam thinks about him, even as the good guy. He isn't looking for pity, but it'd be interesting to know if Liam feels at all bad for acting the way he did now that he's had the time to think about Zayn's real reason for becoming a villain.

But it's useless to drive himself in circles, nothing will come of it. He's single, and unless he sees Liam on TV as Red Valor, he probably won't ever see him again; London's way too large, the odds are highly, highly stacked against him.

Before he crosses the street, he looks both ways, but it's a wasted precaution because when he sees his favourite Italian speaking with his favourite superhero, he halts at the center line.

The elderly man says something that makes Liam laugh, the kind that gets his eyes to crinkle, and the pang of being able to see such a sight in person and not in his dreams, feels a lot better than Zayn thinks it should.

"Ah, you're in luck Liam!" Mr. Abramo proclaims gaily when he sees Zayn's figure slide between the two cars parallel parked outside his newsstand. "He's awake before noon."

It'd be a blessing if his nightmares ever let him sleep in that late, but Zayn's far too caught up in the stare he and Liam are stuck in to voice any version of that thought.

Standing in the presence of someone you once loved so dearly shouldn't feel this unnatural. Zayn can feel his nerves pick up alongside his heartbeat that's going at a speed he doesn't recognize. In the distance, he hears the old man add, "Or he hasn't gone to sleep yet. It's hard to tell with you, Zayn."

Liam smiles at that, meaning so does Zayn because that's become an intrinsic reaction for him; it always would've been if Liam had chosen to stay in his life.

"Hi," Liam says coolly, their eyes still glued to one another's like they're in their own little world.

"Hi," Zayn practically whispers back.

"I'm glad I've finally been able to put a face to the name who's been stealing away my best customer."

Zayn's surprised Mr. Abramo would still say that when he hasn't woken up on the other side of the city in weeks.

"Sorry about that," Liam replies, easily turning his eyes away from Zayn's to direct his answer at the person he's apologizing to. "Twice a week's better than the whole thing though, no?"

Mr. Abramo shakes his head and looks at Zayn, "He really is your boyfriend."

_He is?_

A light breeze rolls by.

It may be summer, but British mornings aren't anywhere close to warm; Zayn wants to get back inside.

After taking a copy of The Times off the top of its stack, he turns to Liam. "Do you want to come up?"

"Yeah," Liam nods, "sure. It was nice meeting you Mr. Abramo," he smiles politely at the sitting man.

"You too Liam. Zayn," the Italian says sternly, "tell me. Do you need a stylist? That shirt doesn't match those shorts in least." Zayn glances down at his yellow tee draped over green and white striped athletic shorts. "I know fashion."

"Of course you do, you're-" Pausing, Zayn switches from his normal accent to an overly exaggerated version of Mr. Abramo's, stereotypical Italian hand gestures and all. "From the fashion capital of the world."

Liam's laugh teases Zayn's heart as he gets swiped at by Mr. Abramo's cane.

"I mean it!" The senior shouts after both men who are now timing their street crossing. "Stay in bed if you're going to go outside looking like that."

"He's a lot more of a character than you made him out to be," Liam chuckles, hopping up the opposite curb.

"Yeah," Zayn replies apathetically, pulling out his keys. Before unlocking the door, he tilts his head towards Liam. "Were you waiting for me?"

"It'd be a bit odd if I came all the way to Hackney for a paper, don't ya think?"

He doesn't comment on the cheeky answer, simply pushes the door open for Liam to enter, and takes the two flights of stairs in silence. There's too much to say, and yet nothing at all for Zayn to dare open his mouth. Regardless of the countless texts he'd sent on how he thought it would be fair if they sat down and talked through everything after their emotions subsided. How he still wanted to figure things out with Liam. How he swore that was the last time he'd use his powers destructively. Even after sending all of those, Zayn's still drawing a blank.

He's just glad this is all happening so early because he didn't even want to think about what either Harry or Louis would say if they saw Zayn letting Liam into the flat at the crack of dawn. While the former would probably see it as a good sign, a productive one, unlike if Liam had come over in the middle of the night, the latter wouldn't care about the timing, he'd commit to cracking a crude joke anyway. Just the thought of it has Zayn shutting his bedroom door extra quietly.

When he turns around, Liam's already taken a seat on the edge of the bed. There's plenty of room for Zayn to join him. There's also the chair tucked into his desk on his left.

Breaking up really does change you in the weirdest of ways.

"I um, I didn't think I'd hear from you again," he says after choosing to sit at the foot of the bed, unable to look Liam in the eye even if his life depended on it.

"Yeah, me neither. How have you been?"

_Miserable._

"Getting by. You?"

"Same."

A more uncomfortable dance has never been had. Liam needs to just spit out why he was waiting for Zayn at the one place he knew he'd be. Why now?

Is this about his shirt?

"You left your shirt here one day." Zayn's up and off the bed, moving towards his rack of clothing. "I washed it," he says, pulling it out from where it's basically been gathering dust. "So, you don't have to, you know, worry about that..." God, he sounded like such an idiot. "I haven't come across anything else, just the shirt."

Liam accepts the piece of clothing that Zayn's taken off the hanger with a small "thanks", then waits for the bed to dip to finally end their tiptoeing. "My mum called me a few days ago when I was on a run. She asked about you."

"Oh."

And if Zayn couldn't look at Liam before, there's no way in hell he can now. Not when he's just learnt that the most important person in Liam's life hasn't been tuned in to everything that's happened. Well, maybe not _everything_ , but that they weren't speaking at the very least. Zayn hadn't been able to dodge questions from the two down the hall for more than a week.

"How is she?" He asks civilly.

"She's good. Busy with work, nothing new." The update earns Liam a patient nod. "She wanted to know if we were over our fight."

_So that's what this is? A fight?_

Even though he's not so sure he's equipped to handle the answer, Zayn pulls the trigger anyway. "What'd you tell her?"

"I asked her for some advice," Liam replies steadily. "Are adults truly set in their ways or can they change?"

Not at all the response Zayn was expecting. His stomach lurches slightly at its implications, but he's determined to twist the knife deeper.

"And what'd she say?"

Liam takes his time inhaling deeply, "That the only way to find out is to actually give the person a chance to change. Without the option, they automatically fail."

A glimmer of hope rises from the ashes enough for Zayn to look up from his green comforter and see that Liam's got the smallest of smiles playing on his lips. Before it disappears and Zayn wakes up from this fantasy, he needs to convince the other man to listen to his mother's recommendation; it's his only shot at a do-over.

"I don't want to be this way," Zayn pleads, eyes wide, searching for reparation. "I mean that. I'm just so angry. All the fucking time," he emphasizes, the emotional agony he's speaking of trying to claw its way to the surface now that it's been highlighted.

Zayn's affliction changes Liam's demeanor to one of full, attentive support. "There are people who can help with that."

"I already rant to Harry and my mum."

"Someone who's not so close to you and who you can get real help from, not just use when you need to get something off your chest."

What a line straight out of Harry's mouth. Fucking Liam, taking it upon himself to study the psychological aspects of community development in his free time.

"What if they don't help?" Zayn objects ardently. "What if I go for months and I do everything they say and I'm still..."

No word fitting enough comes to Zayn's mind, not in English or Urdu. None are comprehensive enough to explain the type of person his past has made him, the guilt he carries from letting down every person he never wished to.

"Then we'll go from there," Liam offers for him when Zayn's struggle becomes obvious. "But for the betterment of humanity," he prefaces seriously, "I won't hesitate to put you behind bars. Even if I do love you."

The empty threat goes unnoticed when Zayn hears the last four words leave Liam's mouth. "You still love me?" He asks in disbelief.

"You weren't born bad, you were just dealt a bad hand."

That's it. That's what Zayn's been trying to get everyone else to realize since he arrived in the UK. It's the most all-encompassing, on point description that has him feeling more understood than ever before. And that's thanks to Liam.

Shifting his whole body onto the bed, Zayn crawls forward to pull the man in for a kiss, one that's long overdue and warms him to the core. Even when he pulls away and they sit, staring at each other, he can't believe Liam's right there, in front of him, smiling.

"So," Liam's hand trails across Zayn's left shoulder, "your tattoos come alive?"

The older male gazes down at his arms, a plethora of art staring back at him. "Yeah. The day before Louis and Harry and I moved here from Bristol, we wanted to get one final tattoo to commemorate our six years there. But the guy we usually went to had a family emergency and canceled, so we just decided to get high instead." He pauses for Liam to get his chuckles out. "Little did we know, our dealer had a tattoo gun, so we scored. Louis nominated me to go first after we smoked for a while. I guess I was too high to notice that the needle wasn't sterile beforehand. Louis only pointed it out afterwards when I asked him why he didn't wind up getting anything. For the first few days, I was convinced I was gonna get AIDS or an infection or something, but the blood tests I ran came back negative and the tatt healed perfectly."

Turning around, Zayn rubs where the dictionary definition and phonetic spelling of the word "otherness" is inked on the back of his neck, below his rose and above where Kiwi's fantail sticks up.

"Couldn't be any more fitting," Liam comments openly.

"Yeah, that's what I always thought." As Zayn turns back around, he smiles fondly. "The first time I realized I could use them, I was up on the roof reading. It was really nice weather, but after a while, the sun started getting annoying. And I remember thinking, if only my palm tree could lend me some shade," he points to the tiny tropical plant on his right arm, next to the word "Chillin'" in bubble font. "Next thing I knew, it was evaporating off my skin and into real life. I've never screamed so loud."

Liam's soft giggling fills the room with airiness. "So, any tattoo you get you can use as a power?"

"I wish," Zayn sighs longingly. "Only the ones I had inked prior to that one," his thumb gestures to the tattoo that started it all, "can be used. I got my sister's and my dad's name done once I realized what I could do." The Arabic writing on his left forearm is pointed out, then the cursive "Yaser" behind his right ear. "I did it hoping I could find out where my sister is." He hates to say it out loud, but it'd be the elephant in the room if he didn't. "That is, if she's still alive. And to know how angry my baba would be with me if I told him what took place. But nothing happened."

He'll never forget racing home after getting them done to dress up nicely just in case his dad really did appear in front of him. Or even better, he got transported back to Pakistan altogether. After spending ages concentrating with his eyes closed, Zayn ultimately labeled it as a worthless sci-fi dream. He had no choice but to do the same when his efforts to conjure his sister, or even just a map with her coordinates to know she was out there breathing, wound up futile.

"Louis made a composite of what my sister might look like today," he adds coldly. "He updates it every year and has a bot scour the dark web to try and find her."

"My mother aside, you're the strongest person I know." Given their time apart, Zayn's left both touched and confused at Liam's declaration. "What you went through was horrific, and even though the trauma drives you to do some pretty despicable things, that's only, what?" Liam cocks his head to the side, "Ten, twenty percent of the time? The other eighty, you manage to hold down a job— thrive at it as a matter of fact. Feed a safe hobby." Zayn can't help but let out a bit of laughter at the finger pointing to his bookshelf. "And trap someone into being in a relationship with you."

"Trap?" Zayn repeats with raised eyebrows and his signature smirk. "I didn't hear you complaining when you were busy leaving _this_ here."

As soon as the shirt's being taken out of Liam's lap, the man's snatching it right back with a light blush. It's the sort of reaction that Zayn's missed wholeheartedly, almost more than the comfortable banter itself.

"Can you show me?" Liam gestures towards the other's skin. "Up close?"

It's an easy request to fulfill, but a sensitive one considering it's been almost three years since Zayn's shared his gift with another soul. He doubts Liam will react like Louis had, overly exhilarated. And while he's similar to Harry with his sensible approach to new things, Zayn also knows Liam well enough to guess that he won't try and hide his intrigue towards the enchanted tattoos behind a stubborn smile like his brother did. But there are far too many to choose from, so Zayn asks for Liam to choose.

"A nice one."

"They're all nice," Zayn corrects, scanning his arms and legs for something worthy of a good first impression. A proper first impression. "I'm responsible for ordering them not to be."

He's about to pull out his smiley toy robot when a gem of remembrance comes to him.

"Saanp," Zayn calls tenderly.

Liam's eyebrow cocks, "Why do I know that word?"

"Because you asked to learn it."

The second Liam spots the viper poke its head out of Zayn's shirt collar, his complexion turns ashen.

"No," he opposes vehemently. "No, no, no, no." The more the serpent's body slides out of Zayn's clothing, the further up the bed Liam crawls. "Zayn, please no. I hate snakes."

"It's alright," Zayn says calmly, looking down at one of his many exotic pets twisting its way around his neck. "He's not going to hurt you. He won't bite unless I tell him to. And even then, it has to be in Urdu."

Saanp's scales feel cool and smooth against Zayn's skin, therapeutically relaxing him the more he moves. Sparing a glance at Liam, he can tell that he's still incredibly apprehensive at putting any trust into the snake, but there's a hint of fascination the more time passes and Saanp proves himself to have a friendly personality.

"Go say hi," Zayn encourages softly.

After sliding down from Zayn's neck, Saanp zigzag's across the bed to Liam.

Legs now tucked underneath him, it's clear to Zayn that the other's literally holding his breath the closer Saanp gets to him. By the time the snake slithers up Liam's light wash jeans, the tension gets to be too much and Liam exhales loudly. He's got his eyes squeezed shut so tightly, Zayn imagines that it's got to hurt more than help.

"See? He's good," Zayn offers, watching his pet climb up Liam's chest to get to his shoulders.

When he's not receiving any attention, Saanp wraps himself around Liam's neck lazily and goes limp.

"He's a viper, not a constrictor," Zayn says when the snake's placement only enhances Liam's anxiety. "He won't suffocate you, he just wants to be friends."

Every few seconds Saanp's tongue darts out to smell his surroundings, but other than that, there's no other movement coming from that side of the bed; Liam's a statue. The three of them sit like that for what feels like ages before Liam finally cracks open an eyelid and looks to Zayn for confirmation that he's still alive, too afraid to do much more than that. Much to his dismay, all he gets is an encouraging grin.

A deep breath of bravery can be heard cutting through the strained atmosphere. However, Zayn has to keep himself from snorting and ruining Liam's progress when the younger man raises a shaky hand to pet Saanp's head like he might a Golden Retriever.

"Tell me about how you got telekinesis," Zayn says, hoping that sidetracking Liam's brain will help console his fear.

"I call it elemental telekinesis," the hero discloses between clenched teeth, Saanp gaining his energy back now that he's being attended to and tickling Liam's neck with his tongue. "I can manipulate elements into different states, then move them around with my mind. I'm not 100% sure, but I'm fairly certain I got it from a surgery I had when I was four. I was born with a rare kidney disease. I would've died if my parents hadn't signed me up to be a test subject for a new cure."

Saanp gets a little gutsy and begins to move from around Liam's neck up into his hair - a badge of honour Louis wasn't awarded with until weeks after their initial meeting. But Liam's completely blind to the action being one of a friendship offering.

"It gave me heightened agility and dexterity too," he adds, going back to having both eyes closed once Saanp uses the bridge of his nose as a point of balance. "And healing. I can heal from anything."

That would explain how he could return Zayn's bandana without mentioning a thing about his cut healing overnight.

"We're some pair," Zayn replies sarcastically, patting the space next to him for Saanp to come, Liam's had enough for today.

"Red Valor and..."

"Black Blood." Since he knows Liam will ask, Zayn just goes straight into an explanation. "My tattoos are a part of me," he states proudly. "I like to think my blood's black from their ink, not red."

"Red Valor and Black Blood," Liam tries out, back to feeling at ease now that Saanp's spiraling up Zayn's left arm and not around his face.

"Sounds complimentary." Knowing his snake's got a good grip, Zayn turns his wrist to highlight one circle tattoo in specific. "Like yin and yang."

"What does that one do?"

"If I get it to spin fast enough," Zayn smiles wickedly, "it can hypnotize. I tried it on a rat once."

Liam's stuck watching man and his pet use each other as a means of entertainment, one doing the juggling and the other simply allowing its stretched out body to be passed between hands fluidly.

"Hearing all of them is going to take an eternity," he thinks aloud.

Zayn's content smile grows at the prospect of their current activity being all he accomplishes for the day. "I'm not doing anything."

"I've gotta go to work."

That's right, Liam works on Saturdays. This part of the relationship he _hadn't_ missed.

"Well, if you want, you can come over afterwards," Zayn suggests, coaxing Saanp back into his epidermic home.

"Or, you can come with me." Sensing Zayn's confusion, Liam elaborates. "The kids are gonna use the upstairs again for a sports day. You seemed like you enjoyed yourself at the talent show, and we can always use an extra set of hands."

Liam's right, he did have a good time being around so much naivety. And his most recent New York Times Best Seller purchase wasn't going anywhere.

"Ok," he nods while getting off the bed, "let me wash up."

"But Zayn." The named man halts in his place, looking over his shoulder and turning around fully when he sees that Liam's expression matches his firm tone. "If you prove me wrong, just once," he holds up a finger. "I don't care how small, if I find out you're harassing people, or god forbid killing again-"

"You'll murder me yourself," Zayn finishes for him. "I know. I promise," he vows earnestly, maintaining strict eye contact so Liam can gather how serious he is, "I'm gonna be a different man."

"Same sharp tongue though," Liam demands cheekily. "I want you to keep that. It makes me laugh too much."

A slow, twisted smile spreads across Zayn's face. "Just so I've got this straight," he starts hesitantly, "I'm _not_ allowed to drown people, but I _am_ allowed to tell them when their dye job makes their hair look like a burnt toupee?" Liam's head tilts back ever so slightly as he laughs at the hypothetical. "Why?"

"Because most of the time you're right, the rest of us just aren't brave enough to say it out loud."

Zayn swears he'll never love any other person more than he loves Liam.

"Here," he says, stepping away from the bed to give himself some space, "since you've already met Hera..." Perhaps "mauled" is the more appropriate term. "You can get acquainted with Zeus while I hop in the shower."

Like Saanp had, Zeus pops out of Zayn's leg at the sound of his name and a telepathic command.

"Whoa," Liam breathes, instantly scooting to the edge of the bed so he can be nearer to the wolf. "You're not so scary. You're just a big dog, aren't you?"

Zayn's glad none of his animals speak English because he predicts Zeus, named after the most powerful of all the Greek gods, wouldn't take well to being compared to a domesticated mutt.

"Take this." Reaching down, Zayn pulls out the teddy bear inked below his left knee and tosses it to Liam. "I let him play with it on days he's been extra good."

Sat on his hind legs obediently, Zeus looks at the toy in Liam's hands like it's a freshly caught hare. Funny how the man doesn't voice any concerns about losing his fingers now that the animal in front of him has fur.

Zayn lets them be, confident that he'll come back to a room full of stuffing and a crinkly-eyed Liam. And when he does, he tells them to both stay put - Liam on the floor buried in randomly sized puffs of cotton, and Zeus with the bear's disfigured head in his mouth, relaxed jaw resting on Liam's stomach. Zayn takes a photo, and on the way to Kings Cross, saves it as his new wallpaper.

In another life, perhaps Zayn would've made something out of his misfortunes like Liam has.

Where Zayn had allowed his guilt and anger to ruin him, Liam used his adversity as motivation. If he really wanted to, Zayn could argue that putting in the hard work to get himself to where he is in his career is a sign that a portion of his hurt's been transformed into drive, but walking into the community centre and seeing the type of work Liam's dedicated his life to wouldn't make the effort worth it.

The lives Liam changes are ones that could have easily been his had he fallen into the poverty's vicious cycle. Yet, here he is, an hour into waiting on hold for a specific housing representative to see if they can find a place for a twenty year old that didn't know accommodation assistance was only a Monday through Friday resource, all the while, watching over a group of rowdy kids fighting over a basketball. Zayn's helping. Well, he's keeping his eye on them while he tries to keep up with Mohammad's Arabic on the sidelines, but he's there. None of the rascals are gonna die.

He'd been surprised when Mohammad recognized him straight away, splitting off from his group of friends when their organization's leaders had guided them through the centre's front doors. And again, when the little boy continued to stick by his side after they migrated upstairs to the gym space. From there, it didn't take long for the nine year old to pull out his yo-yo and begin to show off a new trick. Even when he starts to talk with Zayn about how hot it is in their respective home countries this time of year in comparison to England, he still keeps the toy spinning in front of him.

"Connor's always complaining about the sun, but nobody has a pool in Syria!" Mohammad giggles like mad, "He wouldn't last a day! He'd burn in a second!"

It's as he's joining in on the infectious laughter, that it occurs to Zayn.

Mohammad's sat next to him fueling his own amusement because his parents couldn't financially keep their heads above water, the same as every other kid in the room. He's seen just as much of what the world's vile side looks like as Zayn has, possibly more. And yeah, he was one of the lucky ones who made it out of war _with_ his family, but where was his five bedroom home in semi-rural Cheshire? Where was his never ending supply of pantry snacks? Forget piles of gifts, his parents could probably barely afford to buy a celebratory meal for Eid. Zayn hadn't ever celebrated Christmas before moving in with Harry, but that didn't stop his parents from designating a special corner under the tree for Zayn's gifts and Zayn's gifts only. Whenever the string on Mohammad's yo-yo finally decides to give out, that'll probably be it.

In the absence of places like this to go to and people like Liam to help him, Mohammad wouldn't stand a chance at building a healthy foundation to battle the bad hand life had dealt him. If Zayn could be a part of that, then it's possible everything he's been through doesn't have to stay a lesion in his sails.

And maybe, just maybe, if he plays his cards right, he can convince Liam to add helping immigrants cross the border to his list of superpower exceptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you caught your breath?
> 
> Thank you so so much for taking the time to read this, it means the world to me.
> 
> Just one little thing I want to point out in case you missed it is how, even though he was the sarcastic bad boy, Zayn was really the one to move his and Liam’s entire relationship forward. He was the first to actually do something about putting their first date into action. He initiated the first kiss. He introduced Liam to his family first. He was the one to label them as boyfriends. He was the first to say I love you. It’s little character things like that that I really had a lot of fun working out and I hope you enjoyed picking up on a few of them too.
> 
> The next fic definitely will not be anywhere close to this long, haha. I’m taking a few days off, then I’ll start the scene breakdown framework for it. If you want to try and guess what hint I left in this fic that gives way to the theme and/or career paths of ziam of the next, feel free to comment down below. Or, if you want to skip the wait, check out my tumblr below!
> 
> Click [ here](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/patreon) for my usual Behind the Scenes page for things like:
> 
> \- Inspiration photos incl. ziam outfits worn  
> \- Blueprint graphics for the boys’ flats  
> \- Link to the community centre I based Liam’s off of  
> \- All 20+ research links  
> \- Write up on why this is the first fic I’ve even mentioned sexuality  
> \- The next plot line information!
> 
> If you want to take a look at my comprehensive list of Zayn's tattoos, click [ here](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/ztattoos)!
> 
> Feel free to spread the love through picspam [ here ](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/post/618942963902496768/ziam-ficrec-red-vs-black-by-ziamhaze-no) too.
> 
> Thank you all so much! See you in a few months!


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